Show no Quarter
by BackwardEdge
Summary: "War is no more delicate then the finest of dances, and they know the steps. They know more then anyone." A tale of what Soldiers do for Soldiers.
1. Legate of the Second Cohort, Part One

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**Disclaimer:  
**TES: Skyrim related characters and content all belong to Bethesda. Barnabas Quintillus meanwhile, belongs to meh!

**Authors Note:**

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

DO NOT CROSS. Park at your own risk. Sippy surface! HIGH VOLTAGE Keep THIS side up! DANGER Microwave laser! Caution: Sensitive electronic DEVICES! Smoking can cause fatal lung disease. CCTV IS IN OPERATION.

**READ HERE. Like seriously**

This is not the standard Civil War Quest-line. It is in fact, Ladies and Gentlemen, the view point from an all together different character. Oh Lord and Macaroni, what does this mean!? Well, not much. I have to say, just don't be looking for a storyline about the Dragonborn and her ass-kissing servant Lydia or Dog Boy Farkas. This story has nada, sorry. Also, it's from the Empire's side. Don't like? Don't read.

And, and there will be some pretty gruesome stuff. Cringey, painful, bloody, horrible stuff. There won't be much in the way of adult content, probably, but still. It features the war and manic-borderline-on-homicidal Imperial Legates, so uncontrolled masochistic sadism is the norm, I'd expect.

Just warning you now, because I'm _charming_ like that.

* * *

**Legate of the Second Cohort, Part One**  
Twisted Lands

What remains of the Fifth Century is encamped in a patchy clearing of reasonable size, a good few miles South-East from Karthwasten and a short walk away from the river. They had pushed from Solitude with eighty men, now there is little over fifty and the majority of these beaten men and women are dosing.

If they where anywhere else perhaps, perhaps they could have welcomed sleep, however the Reach gives no such luxury. These twisted lands are as debilitating mentally as they are physically. It just feels, _wrong_. The Reach seems to amplify it's own breed of anxiety and add that to the constant threat of attack, the uneasy exposure and the recent tales of mythical monsters, and it is no surprise that the soldiers simply cannot let their guard down enough to let sleep take them.

Its a considerable problem, all soldiers learn to sleep even in the most dire of circumstances. It's a luxury you can't often afford.

The news regarding Helgen has spread like wildfire, so much so, that even the most primitive corners of Skyrim have heard the news. For those involved however, it's just another reminder, another annoyance. Every story surrounding the attack is different, a blend of not-quite truths and shouldn't-be truths, exaggerations and downright horse shit that blend to make an uncomfortable retelling. The soldiers themselves know of a few men to escape Helgen, the Legate was one of them - and he for one is not telling stories.

Quintillus had taken command of the Fifth Century shortly after. He'd arrived at their encampment with nothing but his uniform, sword, a short rest of convalescent leave and freshly healed scars promising incomprehensible strife, and then whisked them away to the Reach without so much as a complaint. A week to heal is not much, even for the more minor of burns and stabs - but they are at war. And there is none better then Quintillus to remind the soldiers of that fact. General Tullius calls him "Reliable", but the soldiers know the difference between simple reliability and terrifying tactical brilliance. When Legate Quintillus looks at his men, he sees numbers - he sees soldiers. Nothing more, and nothing less. Not quite expendable, but not quite cherished either. He's the man to lead them to their deaths, at any rate, and not bat an eyelid. He may not like it, he may argue until he's hoarse with the General about it afterwards, but there has been one simple rule that the Legate has beaten into his Legionnaires heads from day one;

'Orders are Orders, and they have to be obeyed.'

And the Legate does so religiously, without fail, every time. It's the only trait he allows his soldiers to see.

The man is a solider, through and through. There is nothing beyond a uniform, a head for tactics, a strong sword arm and a commanding tone. If the Legionnaires wanted a leader they could look up and relate too, it would have to be their current Centurion - because this man, he wouldn't - couldn't - relate to them even if he _tried_. After all, he's not there to be their friend.

Legate Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort stands directly perpendicular to his tent, overlooking a major decline in land. The scene stretched before him is rugged, empty, and he contemplates it with his arms folded and a scowl upon his face.

He stands in silence, per usual, even when Centurion Ausonius approaches. The younger male regards his Legate with as much respect as any other Legionnaire but without the parade ground flair, it's one of the few things they've come to like about the man. The most _their_ Legate asks for is the completion of his orders and, perhaps, a salute now and again. No need for petty admiration - they can save that for the decorated elders back home when they've put this bloody rebellion into the ground.

"Did you hear the news?" Ausonius asks, his voice is carried away and it echoes against the sharp cliff faces. Quintillus ticks his head to the left, he's heard lots of things. "The Dragonborn has signed up."

That gets a reaction from the Legate. Grunting, he considers the thought for a moment, it's a complex mix. He's indifferent, yet at the same time, he's very much swayed by the news.

"Not as a regular, I hope." He finally speaks, running a hand against the shortly cropped hair above his ear and glancing sideways at his Centurion. "We need trained soldiers, not more Nordic barbarian farm boys."

"Farm girls."

"I'm sorry?"

"The Dragonborn is a farm _girl_."

The Legate turns somewhat, glancing once at the two Praetorian guards stood perched near his tent. "She's a Nord."

"Aye, Sir." Ausonius nods, he's grown accustomed to the Legate's apparent racism. Not that they could call it _racism_, really. He wouldn't punish a Nordic Legionnaire more then a Cyrodiilic one.

"She's an Auxiliary." Again, Barnabas Quintillus falls silent. He's had no need for folk tales before, he has no need for them now. "It's one more uniformed soldier, nothing to become exited about."

"Of course, Sir."

And that is the end of the conversation.

The two stand in silence for a moment longer, analysing the land with dull interest. A south blowing wind pushes against them, bringing a cold chill across the makeshift encampment. There comes a shout from further back, and the Legate turns. His expression blanks, and the only indication of worry is the slight narrow of his eyes. Ausonius turns also, watching his Legate for any indication.

"Did you hear that?" He asks, his tone harder then before.

"Sir?" Ausonius questions and the Legate answers by holding a hand up, his other curling around the hilt of his sword. On unspoken command, the two Praetorians form up behind him.

_"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"_

The Legate doesn't even have to order, "To arms, Legionnaires!" Ausonius barks across the encampment and there is the clatter of soldiers, boots and the sudden sharp clash of swords against primitive wood. The Legate draws his sword with simple instinct, running forwards the grab the edge of his officer's helmet. Pulling it on over his head, he swoops his shield up, strapping it to his right arm with practiced efficiency.

"Retreat." The Legate orders, firmly. He examines the encampment, his eyes darting across the scene with a frenzied urgency. "We're sitting targets. Fall back towards Karthwasten, move!"

Crawling from the dips and crevices, the Reachman come spilling from the far right. Twisting and bending through the lines of tents, screaming. It's worse then the rabble of Stormcloaks, and for one reason. The Stormcloaks, while comparable to barbarians at their base, they still had some form of human conscious. You can count on them hesitating, for the glimmer of human fear to show. With the Forsworn, you'd be better off facing against an army of half starved sabre cats. There is nothing but relentless, blood curling madness bunched up in a vaguely humanoid shape.

As to prove his point, a scrawny Forsworn runt comes speeding towards the Legate. He dives under the legs of his first Praetorian, much to the surprise of the second. The Reachman makes to go for the Legate's jugular with his teeth, and he's met with a shield to the face. The Legate just squares his shoulders and powers on forwards.

* * *

It does not go well.

The Fifth Century loses more then a dozen Legionnaires trying to pull out of the camp, and a further six more in a last ditch attempt to get to Karthwasten. The Forsworn know the land better then the Legion ever will, and they come form all kinds of places. From under branches, from behind rocks, between trees, over boulders, from gaps in the land. They spill out from all angles, and the Legionnaires can only run on and hopefully find a defensible position. The Legate doesn't fair any better, he has to pull one of his dying Praetorians behind a boulder and hide his body, least the Forsworn dismember it for decoration, or something equally horrifying.

They find defence eventually, cut into the surrounding rock. The Legate orders the younger men towards the back, in the middle and putting his older, more experienced old soldiers at the front. The younger ones don't know when to block, when to move forwards. The Legate is often regarded as stuck in his ways, when he says that for every old soldier, tens or dozens of kids are killed in their place, but it's true when you're in a position like this. With so much as an exhale from the Legate, he forms up alongside those on front.

He has a reputation of being half cockroach, back in Cyrodill, it's often said that he just doesn't _die_.

The Legate himself doesn't like putting it to the test, but sometimes he has to live up to reputation.

They move forwards against the onslaught slowly, shields raised upwards, packed against one another shoulder to shoulder. One Legionnaire doesn't bring his shield upwards fast enough and he is met with a arrowhead lodged between his eyes. The man falls, and a slightly younger male forms up in his place. They clash soon afterwards, the frantic slashing of the Forsworn balanced out by the slow but sudden stabs of the men up front. It's hard to get an attack in, but the Legate manages to get a deep cut into a Reachman's guts, disembowelling him as he falls. Another Legionnaire falls, the woman behind him moves forwards. A native falls, he's replaced by several more. It's uneven, unbalanced and wrong - just like the lands they are fighting in.

When their attack thins somewhat, the Legionnaires push forwards suddenly. It must be startling, because the less insane of the Forsworn scramble backwards. Any remaining fear is pushed back, and for those bloody few minutes, the Legionnaires are just as animalistc as their current advisories. They are not fighting for the Empire at this moment in time - they are fighting for their lives.

They stop the fighting when the remaining Forsworn retreat back into the hills. They watch, doubled over and exhausted. The Legate stands some feet away from the rest of his men, some part of him thinks that they are not retreating at all. Losses or not, they came to disrupt the intruders and as he looks back at the crippled Century behind him, it seems they did just that. The Forsworn don't have specific plans after all, no goal, just kill and fall back, kill and fall back.

Kill, and fall back. Kill _his_ Legionnaires, then fall back.

With his heart pounding in his ears and his uniform splattered thick with crimson, the Legate takes in each face. He doesn't spend much time with his Centuries, but he's always had a sharp memory. It's a lost relic of the time before, a small part of his youth that has managed to fit his elder's world of war and soldiers. He's spent a good week and a half with these Legionnaires, and through silent observation, he can recognise faces. Not their names, he will never bring himself to know their names. A name means a story, it means a family back home, it means more then a soldier. It means their death is more then just a loss of life, and that, the Legate will not - can not - comprehend. He knows their faces, he knows who's missing.

It has not gone well.

He spies Ausonius collapsed against the dry grass to one side, when the Legate approaches he gives the man a strained smile. "This is it for me, Sir." He states, voice gurgling. He manages to turn his head, but spitting is asking for to much. He just opens his mouth to let the blood trickle out instead. The Legate bends down beside him, he pulls his helmet off and winces when he realises jut how _bright_ everything really is.

"I'm not leaving you here," The Legate replies, he nods towards the last Praetorian, who ambles towards where the other bodyguard had died. "No telling what the Forsworn will do to you all."

"We'll be dead." Ausonius says in the way of argument, the Legate gives him a strained half smile. He knows, there really is no need to remind him. "Promote Fulvius." The younger man says after a few more moments of silence, his voice is barely a murmur, but the Legate's senses are acute.

Without much of a second thought, the Legate pulls the Centurion over one shoulder. He glances at all the other men, his order getting through to them all. Slowly, they all amble back towards the encampment.

Surprisingly, there is a lot left over.

He stands silent as his men packs up the things, bury the dead and scrounge what is left of their food and drink supplies. A few of the horses survived, including the Legate's own. They use those to carry the equipment, leaving hands free to carry back the injured.

"Is that all of you?" The Legate asks when they all form before him, he glances to the darker areas of the land, silently hoping for a Legionnaire, any Legionnaire to come scrambling back out. Nothing happens. He looks back to the faces of the survivors. "Very well, Fifth Century move out. To Solitude." His voice is quiet, but they know even if they didn't happen to hear him. What else can they do?

"I hate this place," He hears one of them mutter as they walk past - he is not the only one.

They had pushed from Solitude with eighty men, now there is twenty four.

And each and every one of them, they hate these twisted lands too.


	2. Legate of the Second Cohort, Part Two

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**Legate of the Second Cohort, Part Two.**  
Honourable Protectors

There was a time, where he was unaware of what war meant. There was a time, where he didn't know how to hold a sword, never mind how to stab someone below the ribs so the blade never got stuck. It seems like a distant memory, that life, its barely a flicker of recognition. Close to thirty years in the field, it's little over a lifetime after all.

He was thirteen when the Great War began. Back then, the Empire went in expecting nothing but a small invasion. Back then, they'd shout and gloat and tell great stories. He did not get called up, of course but Barney Quintillus had grown up with the Imperial Legion's Oath on the tip of his tongue and a fire burning in his heart. He had been big for his age, and the life of a solider couldn't be much worse then the life of a bartender's son, surly. Yes. Barney Quintillus had joined the Imperial Legion without so much as a second thought. After all, who wouldn't want to die for their Empire?

Barnabas only has to return to Cyrodill to to see that, in the civilian world, they where are all as naive.

* * *

THREE DAYS LATER.

Swift ocean winds blow through the streets of Solitude, drifting through cracks in the inn's doors and windows, creating a dull draft that swirls around in its own individual cyclones. It's just turned early autumn, and what little deciduous foliage there is has just began to shed itself free of leaves. The air adds a distinct chill to the area – it's much colder when the sun is down. Though thankfully the chilling bite is kept at bay by the Winking Skeever's spitting fire, and it's close to here they sit. Directly beside the flames so they can keep warm, but hidden away in order to keep questioning civilians away.

"Sounds like a really bad do." Legate Adventus Caesennius grumbles, half interested in his mug of ale and half interested in his brooding. His equally ranked companion does not fare any better, choosing to ignore his half glass of Cyrodillic brandy and to completely concentrate on brooding. He's not in a good mood; he has no right to be.

Barnabas Quintillus had arrived with his decimated Century half a day ago, the gates of Solitude opening up too show the questioning faces of the Civilian populace. To those involved, it's a curse. First it was Helgen, now it is this. They've had to deal with the questions, the speculations, the rants and the patriotic bullshit almost constantly. One man had the gall to call them 'Comrades' and that really was the limit. Unfortunately, he's still in his armour - or what's left of it - and his bandaged wounds are on show again and thus, the questions are still full force. Those in a footman's uniform don't have to deal with it.

'_Mhn, now that's an idea_.'

He shakes his head, all he really wants to do is to return back to the castle. However, right now. He's not one hundred percent sure where he stands. On one hand, he's desperate to return, to fall back into the uncomfortable but familiar embrace of Castle Dour and its military presence. Yet on the other, he is terrified. Terrified of the General, not because of what happened, per say, but because, well...

"I've got my Centurion's blood on my hands..." Legate Barnabas Quintillus brings his hands up to rest against the table top as some kind of evidence, his statement is both metaphorical and quite literal. "I don't... know what to make of that." he then says, pausing half way to assemble the sentence in his head. The whole thing tastes sour on his tongue, it's foreign, wrong and Barnabas shakes his head abruptly again, running a hand through his hair with his good hand. He's lost his men before, but that was to the Elves, or to the Stormcloacks.

Not to... _animals_.

It's one more thing to think about, and at the moment, Barnabas wants nothing to do with idle comprehension. He just wants to sink back into the routine of a soldier. Not pondering, just doing. Acting, reacting. Following orders.

Adventus exhales through his nose slowly. "By the eight... was it that bad?"

Barnabas takes a swig from his glass, carefully, as not to agitate the wounds on his torso "The attack... or the aftermath?" He then replies, scowling as curious glances are sent in his direction.

Adventus shrugs, "I'm not sure."

Silence then follows the comment and Barnabas turns towards the window. The hours of early morning have brought along a drizzle, and rain pings down against the glass, sliding down to fall against the windowsill. The wood is damp, slightly rotting in the corners and he can feel the draft through the rips and openings in his armour. This place has never felt comfortable, but the drink is good.

He downs the rest of the glass to remind himself of that fact.

"What will happen now?" Adventus asks, propping his chin up against his palm. Laurel green eyes flick back to his face and both men consider their drinks again.

Only Adventus drinks, Barnabas frowns. "I'm to report to the General this morning... then, I don't know." He looks down at the table, at the small droplets from where he had struggled to hold his glass, "The Century has a few weeks of leave."

"Only a few weeks, half of them where - well, half dead. How can they only have a few weeks?"

"We are at war, Caesennius."

The reminder is unnecessary, but it stirs something within them both. It's not their place to think about such things. The war is back on, as they say. Reachmen or not, there are still the Stormcloaks to contend with. And the locals.

It's about time they realised it, Barnabas supposes.

They sit in silence for a long time, Adventus is on leave, so he continues to drink to his content. Barnabas however keeps to a strict amount, dully shaking his head whenever the barmaid returns to their table. It's not the best of ideas, to report to General Tullius when intoxicated. As time drags on, the sounds of idle chatter pools outside and when they both look upwards again, the rays of light have since become thicker. People soon begin to enter, and another working day rolls forwards.

"I best be going, then." Barnabas mutters, downing the last dregs of his drink and standing carefully. "Take care of yourself, Adventus."

"And you too, Barnabas, take care." Adventus stretches out a hand and they shake firmly. There is a lasting glance, who knows - perhaps this is the last time they will shake hands. You can never be to sure in times of war, after all.

* * *

Solitude was different from the rest of Skyrim.

The life of a soldier is a diverse one, marching from place to place, area to area, continent to continent, months away from home - or, if your the Legate, 20 odd years. They aren't joking, the recruiters, when they say that in the Legion you can see the world. Of course, it's from one perceptive and said perceptive is not a glamours one but it had it's charm. The constant travelling.

Barnabas himself had seen numerous places, towns and villages. Most of them had been within Cyrodiil's borders, least the Thalmor decides to attack again. Indeed, the Legate remembers Cyrodiil, whether he likes it or not.

Solitude reminds him of Cyrodiil too.

Typically it's very much a Nordic city yet at the same time the infrastructure, the people, the damn _politics_, is heavily influenced by Cyrodiil. For the Imperials, it's a taste of home but for the Nords, it's the taste of the Empire. Honestly, after 30 odd years it startles him how little everything had actually changed, it's all the same attitudes, responses and ideals. It's so similar to the Cyrodilic Empire that it makes him _sick_.

He doesn't like Cyrodiil, it's civilised and safe and grand and it remains so constantly - but it's all the same, filled with the same nameless, faceless generic degenerates who will smile and wave and pretend they know the horrors of warfare. They call them heroes.

"No need to congratulate anybody for killing anyone." He had told his father, when he grudgingly visited for his uncle's burial close to twenty years ago.

He'd had said the same thing to his own Legate when he returned to the ranks, and she had just shaken her head.

"I know."

He doesn't like Skyrim either, it's uncivilised and dangerous and tedious and frustrating at the best of times - but it's quite different, when you put it into perceptive. The Nords are a stubborn, zealous lot, but they know the hardships of war and they either hate you for it or they accept you for it. They don't love you for it, no matter how you appear.

Barnabas decidedly dislikes most things, but he can't help but find some form of fondness for this horrible, terribly mediocre country.

* * *

As a Legate, Quintillus is entitled to several Praetorians as personal security. Unlike the Penitus Oculatus who serve as a different, almost unfamiliar branch of the Legion (and he means that in the fondest, most respectable way possible - because those psychopaths? They are insanely terrifying.) the Praetorians are still soldiers. Trained as Legionnaires, with history of being Legionnaires, who have spoken the same oaths as Legionnaires. Honestly, the only difference between his wayward bodyguards and the rest of his men is that their uniform differs.

The Legate himself has two of them, when he's in a secure area. They stalk around behind him, not quite close enough to crowd, but near enough to remind you that they are there with every twist or turn. If this was any other war, reasonable and straight forward with battlefields and whole-Legion armies, the Legate wouldn't be fighting at all. Senior Legates are few in number, and generally have valuable leadership skills. The loss of a Legate results in dramatic loss of unit cohesion, and his Praetorians know it. Most of them, admittedly don't like Barnabas - you'd have to be a _saint_ to like Barnabas Quintillus - but they are at their base, still soldiers.

And soldiers follow orders, so no. They don't like it when their charge is out in the open, sado-masochistic ass or not.

As the Legate enters Castle Dour's war room, his two bodyguards join the General's four. Tullius glances upwards and Quintillus salutes smartly, as always.

"General Tulllius, Sir." He greets and the General straights slightly, he nods in the way of acknowledgement and the Legate's posture softens. He glances around, and Tullius waves a hand.

"Rikke will be joining us later on in the evening." He grumps, leaning both his palms heavily against the table. "She's taken one of her cohorts to the Pale. Perhaps, her search will bare some fruit."

"I take it Ulfric slipped past Hrollod's men." Barnabas summarises. He taps the boarder between Haafingar and the Reach. "Sir, about the attack."

General Tullius leans backwards somewhat, he's all ears. "How many men?"

"56 in total," Barnabas replies. His voice is little over a murmur, and he swallows hard, speaking louder "56."

"That was the Forsworn." There is a moment of silence and the Legate rubs a hand over his face, he can hear the unspoken concern. _If a bunch of half-witted savages could do that much damage_...

"The report from Marcius says that the fifth cohort's camp wasn't attacked. Likelihood is they saw us retreat from Karthwasten, and decided to have a go."

"And the second's original camp?" The General asks, he's rubbing his brow. It's one more disappointment too many.

"The support and service infantry where moved to fifth, they are awaiting further orders."

"Good. Have you seen the reports on Whiterun?"

Barnabas glances towards the map, his gaze locking on the miniature flags hard. Absently, his hand picks up a red one and he twirls it around. "If Ulfric plans to move on Whiterun, he's even dimmer then I originally thought." He glances upwards, rubbing his lower jaw gently and the General fixes his gaze onto Barnabas' own. "It's only a matter of-"

There comes a thundering down the steps, and Barnabas' two Praetorians glance upwards. Their hands remain glued to their sword handles. Barnabas himself doesn't move, he's facing away from the doorway and any attempt to spin around would only pain his wounds further. That, and he knows a Legionnaire's boots when he hears them, only this time... it's different somehow. He looks back upward at the General, the older man is expressionless, his lips pressed together and being the Old Soldier that he is - he recognises the look. He's trying to set an impression. "I've got it!" comes the arrogant, chirpy statement and Barnabas clenches his teeth.

There's no "General Tullius." or even a "Sir." when the Auxiliary enters. Instead, she just stands there with her arm stretched out, a bulky silver object wrapped in cloth clenched in her hand. The General gives Barnabas a glance, and it's a test of Barnabas' usually unwavering obedience, that he doesn't just go storming up to the girl ranting and raving.

And she is just a _girl_.

She can't be older then Barnabas' youngest sister, twenty winters at most. She doesn't seem tall for a Nord, but Barnabas can't compare correctly - he's very large for an Imperial, being well over his sixes. Though she's not as thin as her kinsmen either, she's muscled - but she's well fed. The Legate's brain runs figures and estimations, and it's during this that she turns to him. She has freckles, but her face is sharp and there is a certain fire in her gaze that Barnabas idly remembers getting knocked out of him during his six month training period.

"Auxiliary." He greets, his voice is neutral and he finds that he's unconsciously adopted General Tullius' posture.

She looks at his uniform for a considerable amount of time, he can see her thinking. She's not slow, Barnabas grudgingly admits that. "Legate," She eventually replies and after a few moments of silence hastily adds the remaining word "Sir."

Barnabas inclines his head, she doesn't salute, but he's never been one for making his subordinates salute. It's a sign of respect and trust, at the end of the day.

He recognises her, and it seems that the General does he does to. Tullius is looking at with him with one of those unreadable but significant looks, the one he's grown to become weary off.

She was at Helgen.

Thankfully she doesn't seem to recognises him, and steps around the table and he pretends to busy himself with his maps so that she wont' get the chance to. As far as he is concerned, she is no soldier. He can't predict how she'll react, so he'll retreat to the sidelines and observe and then he'll plan accordingly and remain sevral steps ahead.

'_If only you'd have done that back in the Reach_...'

He slams his pile of reports onto the desk with more force then what was strictly necessary. He'll get over it, a man gets used to that kind of thing in the army.

"I have the crown, sir." She states with a toothy grin, and the General takes it slowly, gently, as if he's unsure if it will suddenly fall apart of attempt to bite his fingers off. Barnabas isn't particularly interested, he's never been one for the history nor is he dusty relics.

"Did you run into any trouble?" The General asks, retaking his position towards Barnabas' left and overlooking the length of the table. His arms are folded against his armoured chest and he scrutinises this... Dragonborn carefully. She's not a soldier, but he made her an Auxiliary because he doesn't want her to be.

She's to young to be thrown into a civil war as a fully fledged Legionnaire, if Barnabas is any indication as to how they end up. He's a bloody good soldier, yes - an exemplary tactician and combatant, but that's where it all ends.

The General knows that there will be no retirement for the Legate, a civilian's frame of reference is to foreign.

He doesn't believe in anything but war.

The Dragonborn leaves after a good hour and a half with the General's - reluctantly offered - letter to the Jarl of Whiterun. Barnabas knows why he is sceptical of her interests. Yes, she delivered the crown granted, but it doesn't mean they can trust her. The General watches her go, and the Legate glances back at him.

"She's not a soldier," Barnabas states and the General gives him a look. "She's not even in full uniform." He then deadpans.

Tullius doesn't reply, he knows the Legate is right. Instead, he points towards the Stormcloak camp in the Reach. "I want that camp wiped off the map, I've assigned you temporary command over Rikke's first cohort. In order to move supplies and reinforcements to Markarth, we need it doing soon."

Barnabas leans over the table, and plucks the blue flag from the map. and with that small movement, the Legate has spoken.

Three days ago was just a small setback in a larger chain of events.


	3. Legate of the Second Cohort, Part Three

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**Legate of the Second Cohort, Part Three.**  
The First Link in the Chain

The smell of damp earth wafts around them as they sprint, the air is thick with humid rainstorm and the breeze is gentle. It pushes past his helmet and through each individual strand of hair, not quite cooling but not entirely uncomfortable either. The men and woman beside him quicken up the pace, 70 of them in total. The other 50 are dotted around in their individuals Contuberniums, and somewhere, the Legate is alongside them.

Hadvar doesn't completely understand why he is here. After all, Legate Rikke was in command of the First Cohort - not the Cyrodiilic Legate, not Quintillus. He does not complain however, leading the 70 men against the Stormcloaks is a major honour. He's not even an officer yet.

Just past the sharp cliff face, the advancing Legionnaires could see the faint glow of camp-fires and lanterns. The darkness around them is debilitating, but they push forwards at a steady pace - if they tire themselves, they will be unable to fight. One of the men slips, and he's pulled up violently by one of the others. Hadvar glances back and once the man is up again, he turns to see the silhouette of a soldier. The Stormcloak goes to blow into his war horn, but he suddenly staggers backwards and falls down a few hundred meters before them.

"Archers." One of the supervising officers beside Hadvar pants, "They call him a genius for a reason."

"For posting a few archers?" Hadvar replies, his eyebrow is cocked upwards, but he doubts the officer can see in such darkness.

"That is the only sentry in a seven hundred meter radius," The officer explains. "The Legate planned this entire operation, he knew there would be weak defences here. Routine patrol however, we best keep up the pace."

Hadvar gives a deep throated pant, pushing his legs further to move on point. The 70 Legionnaires who are to initiate the main attack ford a narrow stream, and by that point the Stormcloaks are well aware that they have company. The nearest to them shout, barking alerts to their comrades. Most of them are stumbling out of their tents and some of them are still unarmoured, by the time the 70 reach them, seven are dead instantly and that only spurred the Legionnaires on further. Flashes of cold steel, and a few more are taken down before the Stormcloaks get their bearings together. They defend with thick handled axes and war hammers the size of small children. One Legionnaire is to slow, and his head is reduced to chunks. Hadvar moves behind a series of tents, his shield pulled up close and his sword hand clenched tight.

He is met with a large Stormcloak carrying a broadsword, Hadvar can't see that well in the glowing doom, but the shine of the broadsword is enough of a reference. He brings his sword upwards, sprawling towards the left when the male makes a large swooping motion with the thick blade. He manages to get a wild slash, but the sword is caught by the cross-guard. A hefty kick dislodges the two, and Hadvar sends another slash, then another, then another.

He doesn't check to see if the Stormcloak is dead, there are another three waiting for him.

* * *

When he hears the shouting, he signals for them to move forward.

The Stormcloak camp they have long since targeted, filled with the farmers and former mercenaries who where causing problems for the Markarth troops, was mainly circular in shape, located on a flat slope of land. Like most Stormcloak camps, they did not submit to order like Imperial ones. Tents are dotted around where there is room, and that makes it all the more treacherous. Legate Quintillus has good faith in the young Auxiliary Hadvar however, he wasn't a leader but he was reliable. He knew how to follow orders.

He'll get a grilling from both Rikke and the General, letting an Auxiliary take command of close to a full post-one century, but to pull this ambush off without a hitch - he needs a distraction.

70 screaming Imperial Legionnaires should do the trick, at any rate.

Hidden amongst the plant matter, dead trees and cotton grass, the 50 remaining Legionnaires faithfully nicknamed 'Surprise Party' slowly lurch forwards. The scene before them is difficult to distinguish, the dark foggy conditions will hinder anyone's vision. Barnabas has to stay on all fours kneeling forwards in able to see properly, but the image is partly blocked by a spiky feeling bush and what exposed part of his face gets prickled as he tries to get a better view. When it looks like the Stormcloaks are advancing to one side of the circle, he leans backwards and moves upwards so he's just on his knees, he turns to get a rough estimation of how many men are within shouting distance and nods towards the four Praetorians at his side.

"Antrorsus, Antrorsus!" He half shouts half screams, and the landscape around the camp seems to shuffle upwards in one smooth motion. There comes the shouts of the senior officers, passing on his command and they all run down suddenly. Chances are, any men who haven't been trained before the Great War won't know what the command actually means, but it's pretty self-explanatory, when everyone starts bolting forwards screaming choruses of 'For the Empire!'.

There is dirt on his face, his wounds ache and half his uniform is caked with mud, but Barnabas feels as if he is in mint condition. He steams forwards in unison with his men, his boots pressing against mangled mud as he runs. His heart is thundering - but he is calm. He has come so accustomed to the fight, like an animal, like a beast, it does not phase him.

'_Perhaps the Reachmen are not the only monsters_.'

The men before him scale over makeshift defences, and one of them slashes his leg open on the sharp edge. The lad attempts to continue on anyway, slamming into his first Praetorian, whitch completly usurps the man's momentum, making him in turn slam an armoured wrist into Barnabas' face. Thankfully, he has three other men just waiting to act when he needs them, otherwise he'd be face down in the dirt by now. They both push against him to keep him upright. The Legate doesn't call them out to their fault, he's exhausted by the time he is in the encampment proper, but if there is anything he's come to learn, its's that fatigue is irrelevant. He hesitates, he may die. He misses, he may die. He forgets, he may die. It's the memorized thrum of sheer wartime chaos that sweetens any fight.

Some of the men armed with spears, begin to thrust them into the tents at odd angles and those armed with crossbows stay further back to give supporting cover. The Legate runs straight on before taking a harsh left turn, he ends up intercepting a collection of around six at a dead end made from as of yet intact tents. The first one, he smashes in the face with the pommel of his sword, the man's nose smashes with the force, and his upper face is splattered an accusing crimson. The Legate wipes his face with a gloved hand. He doesn't resort to spitting any more either, he's used to the taste of someone else's blood. The man staggers backwards both his hands in the air, but he's still carrying his sword so the Legate can't be too sure if it's a surrender.

The Legate drives the blade into his throat, ending it quickly so he can concentrate on the others. His four Praetorians form up around him, each taking on one, leaving Barnabas with the remaining one.

She's not big, but she's fast - armed with a small axe too. Her hits are solid and quick and he has to keep his shield upwards and his body tensed to absorb the blows, dislodged pieces of his shield gets kicked up with every frenzied blow. He watches and his mind powers onward with splendid thought.

* * *

For him, it's easier then it looks. Fighting.

Fighting with a sword, knife or axe is nothing more then a blend of calculations, training, health and skill. To the Legate, the world is slower, his brain quick firing commands as if it was simple human nature. He can, quite literally - see everything. To a simpleton, a hand-twitch may go unnoticed, but to the Legate even the smallest of spasms means something, either be it potential injury or an increase in adrenaline. It's these signs he's come to observe, to notice and such little signs burn around him like liquid fire.

If he was a Civilian man, he'd be a good investigator.

_Notable tense in right hand, naturally left handed - trained to use both, apply attack with high pivoted attack towards the right_. The Stormcloak dodges, spinning towards the left, he applies a small tap towards her right shoulder - _creates anger on a personal level, thus creates opportunities_. _Inhaling three times normal limit - exhaustion is taking it's toll, anger increases intake. Gaze is tipped to the right, apply second attack further towards the left_. He moves his shield up to catch the flailing motion, sending his blade below against her left hand side. The steel connects with the fabric of her armour, cutting shallowly. _Result; flash wound, next attack needs more force_. He pushes forwards, his shield tucked against his body. When he gets close enough, he pushes his arm out in force, the sudden barge leaves her sprawling and him momentarily disorientated - _apply overhead attack against the exposed line of neck_ - he does so with brute force when he gets his footing and there comes a animalistic scream as it cuts deep into muscle and bone. He wrenches his sword out, pivoting in one foot to check his six.

_Summery; Deep muscular wound, damage to the spine, major blood loss, jugular damage - Instant death, probability is high_.

He nods abruptly, The rest of them are still fighting.

* * *

Hadvar heard tales of the discipline of the Legion, of the strict need for order, for regimentation. When he first enlisted, he had assumed that such a thing rang true - the battles he had seen where perfectly orchestrated, until now the only botch up had been Helgen.

The ambush wasn't botched, Hadvar only had to see the lines upon lines of the 50 remaining Legionnaires to see that, but this fight was not typical of the Legion. This was dirty tactics, cold bloody revenge at it's peak. An entire First Cohort Century, over one hundred men for an enemy which numbers little over forty.

General Tullius needs the camp wiped out yes, but this much bloodshed is simply overkill. Hadvar doesn't know what happened to Legate Quintillus' last operation, but he clearly wants to be thoroughly on top this time around.

A deadly strain of professionalism, yes - perhaps that's what it is.

* * *

Decanus Durgash shields himself from the barrage of arrows, collapsed behind what's left of the Stormcloak's wooden barricades. There is a scrambling overhead and the Orsimer sends a large beefy hand out to grab the male and pull him down. It's the Primus Pilus, he notes with some difficulty - the distinguishable marks of rank are completely submerged in mud and blood. It's the red hair that gives him away. There is another shadow from above and the Decanus just manages to duck and shield the Commanding Centurion before the Legate crushes them both. Realising his error, the Legate scrambles towards them double bent. Aside from the major dents in his armour, the dark patches of mud and blood and the typical air of murderous bloodlust, the man looks immaculate.

Durgash was one of the Legion rarities. He had originally come to Cyrodiil from Skyrim, from one of the many Orismier Strongholds and enlisted as a Legionnaire as a youngster. Such a predicament in itself is strange, most Orcs in the Legion are solely heavy armoured troops in their own separate divisions, or armour outfitters and blacksmiths. An actual Legionnaire, fighting alongside Imperials was a odd route to take - but the Orc was happier, and those in his Contubernium were happier too. Soldiers love a superior who will finish what they start, and Durgash was no exception. Armed with his trusty war hammer, he finishes most fights before they can even _start_. Even Quintillus didn't fuck with Durgash, but then again such a predicament happening would be an outright surprise. Durgash and Quintillus went right back, they grew up in training together. Quite literally - wherever Quintillus goes, Durgash is not far behind. The odd pair are a prime example of Companionship in Arms.

"Where are your meatsheilds?" Durgash asks, and the Legate gives him a look. The four Praetorians are actually not far behind, they are keeping an eye on their superior through a barricade to their back left. The Orsimer gives off a toothy grin, his large teeth glowing in the semi-light as he shifts backwards and shakes the Pirmus Pilus again, who is either out cold or dead. The Legate checks his pulse, the redhead is indeed alive - which is all the better, if Quintillus had got Rikke's Commanding Centurion killed...

He doesn't want to think about it.

"How many are left?" Barnabas asks, his voice is near to shouting and he ducks behind his shield again when another arrow gets too close for comfort.

"A good dozen," Durgash replies, his tone is much harder, it often becomes so when they get down to business. "They are held up on the ridge there, good defence from all sides - permission to storm it, _Sir_."

Quintillus flies upwards, looking over the barricade and inspecting it furiously before slamming himself back against the trampled grass before his head gets shot off. The Orc is right, the renaming Stormcloaks are held up on the ridge to the far left side, mainly semi-circular in shape, rounded. The remaining barricades look strong too. "How many surplus arrows?" He grunts, peering through a breakage in the barricade with an ample amount of difficulty.

"They've been firing at anything that moves for about a minute and a half," Durgash explains, ticking his head in the direction of the Stormcloak controlled yonder. "Chances are, they have a far few."

"Brilliant." The Legate grumbles glancing behind him, the men begin to slowly advance under cover. He searches through them all, until he sees just the man he had wanted. "Hadvar!"

* * *

The first time Hadvar had seen the Legate Quintillus, he scared him.

Of course, the Auxiliary would never openly admit such a thing, what kind of a Nord was scared by an Imperial Legionnaire? He'd grown up with fear of another man being a Milkdrinker's trait. Regardless. The first time Hadvar had met the man in person, he had actually debated if it was all worth it.

Usually, Imperials - Cyrodiilic born ones - where a proud and often physically appealing group of folk. Most of them had defined faces, groomed hair and shaven chins. In fact, Hadvar had often admired the men for it, and he was very much a woman's man himself. However, the Legate was a completely different kettle of fish. He had a lean, harsh face and his features where to sharp to be conventional. Age had taken the majority of softness out of his face, at forty three. He stood a little taller then his fellow Imperial Legionnaires, and his bones where much harder too. Hadvar had been told that he is the only man in Fourth Legion who has been ordered by his superiors to resort to smacking Civilians, because his punches break jaws and he's known for killing people outright just with his hands. His hair is not cleanly cut like his comrades, it's long at the top and shaved at the sides, making him look far more tribal then what was considered proper. His jaw is unshaven, and when he fights his hair falls over his forehead into the emptiest of green eyes. And he bore so many scars, like most Old Soldiers who fought in the Great War. Hadvar couldn't imagine what strife he had lived through, but in all honesty, scars or no, the man's silent rage said he'd seen much worse.

Yet despite his gruff exterior, his voice was so damn soft. He was so damn angry at everything, but his mannerisms so controlled you could not tell. He moved as economically as possible, always stood upright in attentive perfection, the evidence of years upon years of marching, saluting and standing to attention.

But that wasn't why Hadvar was scared of the Legate Barnabas Quintillus.

He was scared of Quintillus because after a few seconds of staring - the man knows you inside out, and if he doesn't then gods save you, because that is borderline on a threat - and there is only one course of action for those who pose such in a soldiers eyes. He's scared because nobody - nobody should be able to think that rapidly, not even the Bretons or the Elves have such battlefield brilliance. The man can't even do magic, apparently, because his tactics takes it all up.

He's scared, because the Legate is type of man to win you a war, and kill everyone and everything in the process.

He's scared, because if the General isn't careful, the entire Fourth Legion is going alongside with him.

* * *

It's a frustratingly simple plan.

The Stormcloaks have divided themselves into two groups, with a few stragglers in the middle. Five on the Right, Six on the Left and with the remaining others moving around freely makes around fourteen in total. They aren't injured as far as the Legate can tell, and they have access to ample amounts of ammo for their crossbows and standard short-bows. The only way to get past them really, is to go in hard and quick with a simple tortoise formation, then spread apart at the top and slowly advance in the two directions.

Five Contuberniums makes a good three tortoises, Decanuses included alongside the Legate and the First Cohort's Optio - who had since replaced the Pirmus Pilus since he's out for the count. That makes 47 men in total. The rest of the men can provide support from their original position.

"Your insane." Durgash grunts after he explains the plan in it's entirety for the last time.

"Insanely brilliant." The Legate counters, and gives a short hand gesture to his Praetorians. The five then make up what would be considered the roof of the tortoise. Once the two other Decanuses shout, he gives the order to move forwards and they all trudge up the hill in their armoured formation. There is a lot of shouting, a lot of swearing and a lot of panicking, even more so when one of the shields is hit directly with a bolt. The Legate has to yell at the men thrice in order to keep them moving. One Stormcloak fancies his chance and he runs at one of them. He's met with a spear through the stomach and he's left there, on his back with the large pole erupting from his middle.

Once they reach the top of the ridge, they move apart suddenly either going left or right. Barnabas himself goes straight for the Officer in charge, who really does not look all to happy at the prospect of having his entire encampment of Stormcloaks killed. "Your petty resistance is useless, Imperial!" The Officer snaps, "The true Sons of Skyrim will free this nation from the hands of the Empire!"

"I'd like to see this Rebellion to from your opinion, however not only would we both be erroneously wrong - but I'm afraid I would be unable to stick my head that far up my ass to begin with." Barnabas replies calmly, pushing his chest forwards he then spreads his arms out wide. "Come on then, show us just how brave you simple-minded degenerates are."

Some things are better left unsaid, at any rate.


	4. Barney, Part One

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**Author's Note: **

"_Although victorious, the Imperial armies were in no shape to continue the war. The entire remaining Imperial force was gathered in Cyrodiil, exhausted and decimated by the Battle of the Red Ring. Not a single legion had more than half its soldiers fit for duty. Two legions had been effectively annihilated, not counting the loss of the Eighth during the retreat from the Imperial City the previous year. Titus II knew that there would be no better time to negotiate peace, and late in 4E 175 the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion signed the White-Gold Concordat, ending the Great War._

_The terms were harsh, but Titus II believed that it was necessary to secure peace and give the Empire a chance to regain its strength. The two most controversial terms of the Concordat were the banning of the worship of Talos and the cession of a large section of southern Hammerfell (most of what was already occupied by Aldmeri forces). Critics have pointed out that the Concordat is almost identical to the ultimatum the Emperor rejected five years earlier. However, there is a great difference between agreeing to such terms under the mere threat of war, and agreeing to them at the end of a long and destructive war. No part of the Empire would have accepted these terms in 4E 171, dictated by the Thalmor at swords-point. Titus II would have faced civil war. By 4E 175, most of the Empire welcomed peace at almost any price_." - A Concise Account of the Great War Between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion, By Legate Justianus Quintius.

Interesting, how I developed the entire background storyline for SnQ just by reading these two paragraphs. So, without any further ado...

* * *

**Barney, Part One.**  
The Change.

His current profession does not often lend time for idle pondering; but he has always been a thinker. A stoic intelligentsia in a Legionnaire's uniform, sat pondering the little things while encamped in the dark corners of the world. _It's a relic of a youth long forgotten, a trait that has become tainted to fit and inhabit amongst this world of soldiers._

So in his quieter moments, he ponders. Only in his quieter moments, because when the threat of war hangs thick in the air like an upcoming storm, there is no time for simple comprehension. There is only time for tactics, the cold, harsh calculations of prediction. He is like a god in times of war, shaping the battlefield to suit. A destructive creator.

In his current profession, he is the tactician before he is the thinker – always. Otherwise the lines become blurry, and that is just not acceptable. He is a soldier, he is a Legionnaire. His name rides on his performance.

_Legate_ _of the Second Cohort._

There is no time for thinking when you have a war to fight, a war to win. Though when he can, he does. He tries to make sense of it all. Not that there is much to think about, honestly.

Lately he's been thinking about stories.

Not the children's tales, exactly. Or the ancient carvings found in dusty Nordic tombs, the ones filled with honour and prestige and rightful battle and happy endings. No. Not at all.

"_All stories with happy endings are lies._"

He's been thinking about his story. More importantly, he's been thinking about where it starts. Where it begins. He knows what happens... _mostly_, the content, the middle and most likely, he can predict the end. It's the beginning that eludes him.

It always has done.

Everything is supposed to have a beginning... but he just doesn't know where it is. Where on the face of the Nirn, is _his_ beginning? It could be in numerous places, he knows. It could be with his birth, with his conception, with the meeting of his parents. Perhaps he is looking to far back. Perhaps it's with his first cry, or his first wobbly steps.

Though, what came before does not necessarily prove what is now. Barney Quintillus lived as a boy, and he died as a boy. Barnabas Quintillus, the wayward Imperial Legionnaire with a genius mind and a headstrong attitude, raised from the ashes of that young man's youth. A soldier, a leader, a stone cold killer, the Legate who Operates on dreadful genius thought. So perhaps that is where it starts. Where the story begins.

In that case...

His story begins with a war.

* * *

It starts not in the battlefield per say but instead, with a insect.

Red dented eyes stare back him casually as he sits exhausted amongst the grass behind the barracks. He knows what it is, he used to be quite fascinated by the little crawlers in his shorter days. Though, this one does not live up to its name, it's a disinteresting spec, a dozen millimetres long and is neither blue nor a bottle of any description.

Barney Quintillus, the thirteen year old Goliath in a man's Imperial uniform watches it with unspoken dispassion, he watches, as it begins to happily slurp up the sweat that drips from off his brow. There comes a shout from across the grounds, an order. Barney blinks and then slams a delicate hand down to squash it flat, scrambling upwards to form in line.

He doesn't stay there long enough to comprehend it,

But it's his first kill.

* * *

Skip back a few years, and Barney Quintillus is no different from any other boy.

Yes, a boy at this point. He has not yet experienced the hardships of war, nor has he fully come to understand the gravity of his future. He has not yet surrendered to the calling of a soldier. He's not lost.

He's smart, with a somewhat aggravating attribute of not being able to not notice everything. So he's good for schooling, and it's here he becomes dragged under the patriotic delusions. In a few short years, Barney is a staunch Imperialist, headstrong and brave with grand opinions and great expectations of the Empire he is going to serve. Like all the others, he's filled with idyllic patriotism and at some point he concludes that he's _fine_ with that.

But he's not as brave has he often makes himself up to be.

* * *

And that, is proved by The Man who shall Remain Nameless.

He's a convict, a stumpy little man who's bound at the wrists and bleeding at the ankles. From the Imperial Prison, he says and he smashes Barney's head against the tree while he's playing soldier. He yells a lot, and speaks threats with breath that is putrid and disgusting and nothing that Barney has ever faced before.

The Man tells Barney to run home, away from here and to never return and to never, ever speak of this meeting again. And he does, because Barney is scared and he's intimidated and he doesn't yet know how to put the man in a wrist lock and snap his spine. He runs home, leaving his scarf behind and looping around so the Man can't follow him home. Scared he may be, but Barnabas is as much of a learner as he is a thinker and he's learnt a few things from his books on the Imperial Legion. Covering his tracks and making the route difficult is just two of those things.

Bluffing is another one.

Da' comes running down the path towards him when he's finally on the road home. It's dark now, but Barney had to be sure. Had to be sure that the Man would never be able to follow him. "Didn't you 'ear us calling?" He grabs Barney roughly and sends him into his torso hard, hugging him with the strength that only a devoted labour could have. "Barney, you know - You know not to further outwards when you 'ear us calling." The man pulls backwards, holding him by the shoulders and judging by the fact that he is silent, apprehensive - he's waiting for an explanation.

"Well... I. I lost 'me scarf." Barney replies, staring at the ground below him and thinking so hard about pretending to sorry that he almost feels it. "I wanted to find 'me scarf."

His father tilts his chin upwards and sighs between exhausted pants. "Barney old boy, no need to go searching for no scarfs. Scarfs get lost, you have others."

"Sorry for what I' done, Da'."

"No, no. It's all right." His father rumbles, gives him another crushing hug and then turns them both around to face the other way. "Let's get you home."

He doesn't let it show, but Barney knows he doesn't feel sorry for venturing further out. What he did, would most likely protect them from the Man that Shall Remain Nameless.

Perhaps he'd be a good soldier after all.

* * *

He does turn out to be a good soldier, but in a completely different way.

It's first year in the Imperial Legion and that's when The Change happens. He doesn't care for patriotism or doing his duty or anything of the like. While back home, they where giving speeches and preaching about the good fight and the soldier's honour and the greatness of the Legion. Barney was giving out orders, spurring his comrades onwards when yet another man dies of either infection or dehydration. He was making decisions between the fight and his fellow soldier's lives, and he was gambling with the image of the Imperial Legion as a whole when he returned and had to fake a smile because gods damn it where they all this stupid?!

It's not stupidity, he knows.

Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

Still, he calls them stupid because diverting his anger and weariness and frustration at the Thalmor only works when you are fighting against them.


	5. Barney, Part Two

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**Barney, Part Two.**  
Decanus.

The six month training period had initially been harder then Barney first anticipated.

Not for the usual reasons, but because he had joined up three weeks ago with shining enthusiasm only to have to completely knocked out of him. He had joined up wanting to be a hero only to fall in line with his fellow Legionnaires. It wasn't honour, it was a polished set of uniform. It wasn't service, it was drill.

Typically, all the Legionnaires went through the same training. Initial muster, arms and weapons drill, formation, marching and tactical exercises. Gymnastics and swimming, fighting with armatura, learning and mastering combat techniques, long route marches with full battle gear and equipment, all to get you used to the hardships of campaigns. Barney quickly realises just what he's good in and what he isn't and for the most part, it becomes the main focus point of his life.

He's still thirteen, no matter what the other men think. He may be big, but he's still quite slow and he's still not strong enough and he's still not ready. He can't do what the men do, and much to his dismay the Hastiliarius notices. He likes to make an example by regularly using Barney in demonstrations, there is nothing he can do but struggle through it and just gods damn hope that he finds someone _else_ to exemplify.

But nothing is ever that easy, and he's flat out on his back with a busted nose when he comes to the realisation.

"Useless." The Hastiliarius spits and goes to lecture the other Legionnaires. Hard it may be however, Barney pulls himself upwards and moves back in line with the others. He knows he's getting looked at, so he just stares at some random part in the horizon. "Are we going to make a better effort this time Tirone Quintillus!?" The Hastiliarus asks, and Barney exhales sharply.

"Yes Hastiliarius, Sir."

"Are you going to put up a fight, Tirone Quintillus!?"

"Yes Hastiliarius, Sir."

It goes like this for a good few minutes, eventually the Hastiliarius gets bored of Barney's deadpan responses and moves away to let them practice. Barney like usual waits until the men have chosen their partners, however this time he is grabbed hard by one of the bigger members of his training group. When he looks upwards properly, he's face to face with the Orsimer, Durgash.

Barney had only seen him a few times, the Orc did not often spend his time alongside the other Legionnaires. The rest of the men try to keep their distance from the large green skinned ones, but for what reason he himself does not know. "Watch what I do, then copy." He grumbles, pushing Barney towards one side and grabbing one of the wooden swords.

"But how am I 'supposed to lear-"

"I see the way you look at us," Durgash snaps, "Watch what we do, copy. Watch, copy."

It's the first time he realises just how sharp his memory is.

* * *

Durgash and Barney become something of a team.

He's not a very good teacher, but Durgash manages to drill the basics into Barney most nights. While the rest of the men have their two hours rest before lights out, Durgash drags him to the field behind the barracks and makes him perform his drills in order to build up the necessary strength.

"You are big, but you have the build of a child." He explains at one point, thumping him hard in his ribs. "Make yourself bigger, faster, stronger and coupled with that crazy genius brain of yours and you'll be able to best any opponent."

* * *

And he's right.

Barney stands over the Hastiliarius, holding the man's arm at an odd angle. He only has to apply the slightest amount of pressures and he'll snap it like a twig. He doesn't however, but rather lets the man go sprawling onto the floor with a sudden push. As an afterthought, Barney tosses the man's wooden sword beside him on the grass.

Through snot and blood and spit the Hastiliarius glares at him, but Barney doesn't give it any mind. Come what may, he's no longer a boy. He certainly doesn't think like one. Walking over to join the rest of his men in the line, he stands to attention smartly.

* * *

No sooner then he begins to observe, he realises that he's got a good head for tactics. It's simple, it's just numbers but with it's own twists and turns of military urgency. Everything he does has a consequence, every plan has it's flaws, but when he takes a step backward and sees it all from a new angle, everything fits into place. He comes to learn what certain patterns mean, what to expect and what to consider. He learns that quite literally, he can stay seven steps ahead if he plans accordingly.

He takes advantage of this ability, and does so shamelessly. It doesn't make him popular, far from it, but it makes him good.

Barney knows Durgash is right when he says that good is better then dead.

* * *

The next three years are barely comprehensible.

Barney ends up with a skull fracture somehow during the March of Thirst and he nearly dies twice from dehydration. He stubbornly keeps on going however, and even Durgash is surprised and perhaps a little disturbed by his apparent refusal to die. By the time they get reinforcements from High Rock, he's no longer lucid and the most he can do is walk in a vaguely straight line. One of the Healers pronounces him brain damaged, and Barney actually begins to force himself to get better because he sure as _hell_ wasn't going to lose his _one_ advantage _now_.

They end up with two days to prepare and Barney runs through as many war games as he can. Even if he's doing it alone, he doesn't give up. It hurts, the lot of the time, but since his deployment to Hammerfell, pain has become irrelevant. At one point, Durgash comes ambling into his tent.

"You are going places," He tells him quietly, firmly and sixteen year old Barney glances once in his direction, before standing before the now-shorter Orc. "I want to be right behind you when you do."

"You already where." Barney replies, and Durgash gives him one of those mad, no fooling insane smiles that pretty much forged their never ending friendship there and then.

He doesn't know if its a good thing, having such close friendship when one of you could die at any moment.

But he knows he'll eventually grow to like it, he often does.

* * *

General Decianus has them surround the entrance to Skaven and they take the perusing Thalmor head on. It was bloody and indecisive but he manages to survive.

* * *

As he stares at the corpses of what was once his Contubernium, his Decanus watches to. "Unlucky sods," He mutters, slapping Barney on the shoulder as he walks away.

Seventeen year old Barney decides that he hates luck.

* * *

The Battle of the Red Ring, for him, is a shitstorm.

Barney is holding his Decanus together, literally as the rest of General Decianus' men fight against the Thalmor's defences. His hands are slicked with blood and he's holding the man's innards to keep them posing as 'outards. He begs, numerous times for the man to just hold on but he can't keep it up. At one point, he's slumped against the corpse and for what seems like ages he is actually crying. He didn't really like the man, the Decanus cultivated fleeting bouts of interest in him, but most of the time they where distinctly disinterested in one another.

He's jerked upwards at some point and he's being shaken violently. There is a lot of shouting and some sensible part of Barney's subconscious kicks his brain into gear.

"-Over!"

Barney brings himself to look at Primus Pilus Tullius and he chokes.

"Quintillus, get out there!" He barks and smashes both his firsts into Barney's breastplate. The Primus Pilus for a few moments looks as if he's about to hit him, but he pauses at the last minute, wrenches the Decanus' helmet from off the corpse and shoves it roughly into his torso.

"Quintillus, get. Out. There."

And with that, he pulls the helmet on and glances in the direction of what resembles the majority fo the battlefield. Tullius goes first, leading his Cohort against the walls of the Imperial City. He doesn't look back at the corpse as he follows.

Decanus Barnabas Quintillus decides soon after, that he hates most things.

* * *

When he returns home, he is told that the service to the Empire is the greatest thing, and Barnabas smiles and nods. He knows that the fear of death is even greater inwardly, but why would he want to ruin their view on the world? The view on him? He joined the Imperial Legion when he was thirteen. He's nineteen now, and his eyes have been opened to the point where he can distinguish things clearly. Here they are, gloating and cheering - and their Empire is falling around them. Crumbling.

His family are a little angry, at first. He left without telling them. However when he stands exactly three meters away from the front door, standing taller, standing stronger, standing in the armour of a Decanus, they soon forget and come to the terms that he is indeed, alive.

And a hero too, apparently.

He knows that despite the reclaiming of the Imperial City, they have lost the Great War. He knows that joining up with the Legion is a death sentence, but he returns anyway. Five years is it has all taken to completely change him, nothing of his former life remains. He's a soldier now, and he'll have to come to terms with it, as a soldier.

* * *

"Your back," The now-General Tullius mutters when Barnabas enters his tent, pausing to stand behind the desk smartly.

"There is no such thing as peacetime." Barnabas replies in the way of explanation, and he holds the General's gaze. Tullius breaks the eye contact first, nodding as he assembles his paperwork. He doesn't need to pry, he knows.

He's found his place.


	6. One Man's Saviour, Part One

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**One Man's Saviour, Part One.**  
Dominion Dinner Party

Barnabas sighs fitfully, tugging hard at the extremely stiff colour of his full dress uniform. To call him unused to the finery of senior ranked dress is a massive understatement, in fact, the last time he had worn the uniform had to have been a good ten to twenty years ago. His boots are new, giving him killer blisters and the whole scenario repeatedly reminds him of the fact that he is not _built_ for standing around like some kind of _ornament_. General Tullius meanwhile is relatively used to wearing a uniform that restricts all possible movement, and he snaps his head to the side in order to glare at his Legate's fidgeting.

The Legate glares back at Tullius in the way of defence. "Is this _REALLY_ necessary?!" He mutters and despite the fact that his voice is little over a whisper, he glances around the room nervously. The Embassy is filled with the upper-classmen of Skyrim, Thalmor Justiciars and Oblivion knows what else. It makes the Legate very uncomfortable, like he could start a war with one wrong move.

"Just smile and bear it, Quintillus." Tullius replies dismissively, ticking his jaw upwards. He doesn't say so, but he's somewhat surprised at the Legate's effort this time around. On top of a spotless uniform, he has even gone as far as to cut his hair. Unfortunately, the man still remains unshaven but in a room full of Nords, it's not that big of a deal in the long run.

He knows there is no point in mentioning the constant annoyed grimacing, after thirty years, he's pretty damn sure the expression will forever be stuck on the Legate's face.

"I still cannot believe I let you talk me into this." Barnabas huffs furiously and blood flushes to the base of his neck.

The General looks back to the party, "I never forced you to say yes."

Barnabas opens his mouth to resort, however pauses and blinks at the General. For a moment, he looks as if he's about to start again, but he just deflates instead and looks away. He'll just have to resort to sulking his way through the party. Like a six year old.

He's not about to admit it, but Barnabas knows he came here voluntary. With events at Whiterun hotting up, Legate Rikke has her hands full as it is, and in the absence of the a chief lieutenant, the next best thing will have to take her place. Nasty reputation or not, the next best thing is Barnabas. The General did not order him to do so, but chances are he would have if it had come to it. He wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. The General needs back up, it makes the Empire look better. For some reason that Barnabas doesn't and _doesn't want_ to understand.

Taking his drink Barnabas takes mouthful only to spit it back out abruptly into his cup, he makes an exaggerated face and The General rolls his eyes. "What the shit, who in the name... who puts spices in Colovian brandy?!" He demands and Tullius takes his drink.

"You should't be drinking anyway."

"What are you, my mother?"

The General cracks a grin, "Well buy me a apron and call me a bitch Barney, I like my officers to be coherent."

"Oh just fuck off and _die_, Gaius."

Despite the apparent seriousness in his tone, Barnabas can't help but grinning back at the older man. Hell, they are surrounded by the Thalmor, the most they can do is try to relax.

It doesn't get very far, at any rate.

The Legate slowly begins to resume his fidgeting and a few moments afterwards the General snaps again. Waiting until nobody is looking in their general direction, the General smacks his hand. Hard. Barnabas actually recoils and luckily for the General the sudden feeling of being scorned like a naughty child overtakes the instinctual reaction to defend himself. "Are you that uncomfortable?!" The General hisses.

"We don't have bodyguards!" Barnabas grumbles back at him and Tullius inhales deeply. No, they don't.

They walk upon very thin ice, if the General was to decline the invitation chances are he'd cause a diplomatic incident. However, if he was to arrive with bodyguards it could trigger a full scale war. Barnabas himself is no politician, he doesn't know why the Thalmor would take offence. Sure, he can read someone's expression and tell you their life story, or, he could blurt out incredibly offensive one liners that leave their recipient a little hot under the collar - but he couldn't negotiate for shit.

Hell, chances are he'd lose his temper before the negotiations even _start_.

A new group of guests enter the room and the Thalmor representatives glide towards them with ease. The whole thing would seem inviting enough, but Barnabas and Tullius are soldiers. They've been trained to look for threats. Hidden amongst the room are dozens of guards, both hidden and otherwise, just _waiting_ for you to slip something up in conversation by accident.

The General moves towards Barnabas slightly, "Look around the room and see what we're up against. Just between you and me, a lot of what Ulfric says about the Empire is true."**  
**

Barnabas nods and as soon as the General finishes, Elenwen quite literally bounds on them both. The only thing stopping Barnabas from shrieking is several decades of training, but he does however clasp both hands behind his back in order to reassure himself. The General meanwhile detects the sudden unbalance of his Legate and smiles politely. "General Tullius." She greets firmly, and the General inclines his head in reply. "- and who is this? I believe I have only ever met your First Lieutenant."

The Legate swears inwardly with such volume he actually hurts himself.

"This is one of my Senior officers the Second Lieutenant, Legate Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort." Tullius rounds it off calmly and Barnabas nods his head in respect.

"First Emissary Elenwen, Ma'am."

Elenwen ticks her head upwards slightly. "I could swear I've seen you somewhere before..."

"I was at Helgen, Ma'am." Barnabas replies neutrally, "My First Century oversaw the... regrettably interrupted execution of the Stormcloak rebels."

"Speaking of which General, how goes the war?"

"As well as we expect."

'Not very well.' Barnabas comments inwardly with a twitch in the upper lip. The General and Elenwen echancge plenetries and the First Emissary moves along to some other poor fucker.

The General turns towards Barnabas, his eyebrow jerked upwards. "You where behind the scenes are Helgen, she never saw you."

Barnabas grabs a cup of something hopefully alcoholic and grumbles into his glass, "She _tried_ to interrogate me back in Hammerfell."

Tullius stares at Barnabas for awhile before he realises that the Legate isn't joking.

* * *

Out of all the people to greet them, neither man expects it to be the Dragonborn.

"General Tullius, it's such a honour to finally meet you." She smiles with a smile that's not hers. It's a practised façade, Barnabas notes, because she dimples when it's real. The General seems to realise something is amiss too, but it doesn't take them long to put two and two together.

She's an Auxiliary, to low of a rank to be invited so such a social gathering and she's also the Dragonborn, which makes her unarguably an enemy of the Thalmor full stop. To close of a relation to Tiber Septim, Barnabas supposes. He doesn't know why she's here, but he knows she doesn't want to be herself.

She's gone to the effort to not _look_ like herself, after all.

Since their first meeting in the war room of Castle Dour, Barnabas had seen the Auxiliary a few times. Usually in the grounds with that other Auxiliary Hadvar, or in the Winking Skeever. They do not often cross paths, the Dragonborn doing... whatever it is Dragonborns' do and Barnabas getting stuck over-viewing maps or doing paperwork in his office or marching across to the most inhabitable parts of Skyrim. When he does see her however, it's the same picture. Dented armour, red hair tied back in a long braid, usually with a disgustingly possessive outlook.

Here, she's standing straighter, her posture is ridged and her hair is considerably more groomed. There is no armour, but instead selective items of expensive clothing. Her smile is polite and strained, not carefree and goofy. Barnabas himself could note hundreds of differences, but he'll wind up with thoughts he does not want nor care for.

"And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?" The General murmurs.

"Anne Fireblood, East Empire Shipping Company representative."

* * *

It was a routine patrol.

It was a bloody routine patrol.

The party stops a good hour and a half before it is expected to. Elenwen seems to develop at least five different reasons for the abrupt end and everyone is escorted out soon thereafter. Barnabas and Tullius decide to walk the way back, it's not that far and they can detour to one of the camps nearby and pick up some defence for the rest of the trip if needed. It seemed to be a well thought out plan, at the time.

Only they had forgotten one key part of the plan;

The Stormcloaks will jump at any opportunity, it doesn't matter how far across the map it is.

"Down!" The Legate pulls Tullius down harshly, grabbing the back of the man's collar and jerking him away from the speeding arrow that flies past. They had just made it down the road when at least a dozen Stormcloaks come thundering out from behind trees.

By the time Barnabas and Tullius manage to draw their swords, they are surrounded.

* * *

**Oh god CLIFFHANGER. I know, I'm mean. **

**Anyhoo, I guessed that 'Tullius' was a surname, considering the fact that A, Tullius was the surname of male members of the Patrician family Gens Tullia. And B, Military titles are usually followed by surnames. I've decided to call him Gaius for some unexplainable reason. I might change it later on, it depends. ****Don't kill me.**

**Oh, Barnabas. You pouty six year old you. I had too much fun with this chapter, it's criminal. **


	7. One Man's Saviour, Part Two

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**One Man's Saviour, Part Two.**  
The Tactician.

There is a moment, a split second before his brain kicks into gear where the world around him stands completely still. There's no calculation, no frenzied methodological planning. There's just genuine fear, and anger. And for once, it's not directed at the Stormcloaks.

This cannot be happening.

Barnabas winces hard and tries to blink, trying to... well, to lose himself and let the tactician take over. Tullius is backing up, the Stormcloaks are advancing and he's just standing there with his sword arm limp at his side and his expression pulled into one of subtle disbelief. Nothing is happening.

He should have seen this.

'_Move. MOVE. Do something. Anything_!'

Why... did he not see this coming?

'_It doesn't MATTER_.'

Barnabas wipes his face of any expression, glancing upwards, his posture hardening. No. He fights the urge to laugh. It doesn't.

_Thirteen Stormcloaks, four females, nine males. One officer in current total, two and a half foot patrols. Weapons range significantly. Three arches, two swordsmen, the rest have blunt edged weapons._ Barnabas glances at the space between himself and the rebels. _Total distance of... two and a half meters, gait will be slowed do to armour weight._

'_First point of attack_?'

The Legate ticks his head to the left._ Largest male towards the far left, middle is mainly compromised of the lighter, freely moving troops. Second to right Stormcloak is a heavy drinker, the remaining are sober. _He exhales and looks down at their boots, eyes narrowing on the details. _Boots are slicked in mud, evidently from cross-country advancement. Movement is made difficult..._

_Movement._

The thought goes off like an alarm in his head, jolting him violently into action. The Legate jerks himself backwards, feeling the world tilt dizzyingly as the blood in his skull sloshes to one side. He sends a hand out, grabbing a fistful of the General's uniform and dragging him bodily down the side of the hill. He can hear shouting, surprised alarm calls. Neither of them stop, even when the sounds of footfall take up at the rear. The General is surprised to, he makes to say something but the Legate shakes his head.

"Run."

"Wha-"

"Just RUN."

* * *

The first time Barnabas had saved Tullius, he hadn't even realised it.

It had been an arrow, nothing particularly special, nothing particularly unusual. It had been aimed for Tullius, but Barnabas had overtaken him at the last minute and had been shot in the leg as a result. Nothing unusual. Nothing special. Nothing to bother themselves about.

The second time, it was the other way around.

The incident during the Battle of the Red Ring had completely taken him apart, carefully constructed piece by piece. The whole concept of the Imperial City being lost, the whole concept of getting it back - the whole concept of loosing and entire _Legion_ to those bastards was immensely damaging. Yes, Tullius had essentially picked him up, dusted him off and sent him off on a thirty year long career of wartime hell but at the end of the day it was either that or nothing. Barney Quintillus would have never survived that battle, and looking back, the General realises that too.

The third, forth and fifth time, it was Quintillus doing the saving. Only for all those times, it was very intentional.

Perfect soldier or no, Barnabas will always be a bit possessive. It's compensation for how much he has really lost. How much he will continue to lose. When someone threatens the things he holds even the slightest bit close, he's going to react in a positivity homicidal way. It's not that hard to work out.

However, to put it mildly.

There is a reason why Legate Barnabas Quintillus is required to smack civilians.

* * *

Leaves and twigs are kicked up as they run, rain soaked snow and muddy timber splattering their shins an assortment of brown neutral tones. The air is sharp at this high of an altitude, the mixture of sea salt and icy burn makes his lungs cry out. Barnabas is not made for running, he's meant for hitting hard and fast and it shows.

At some point, the Legate lets go without so much as a concious thought. Images are speeding past, details begin taken in and no sooner then they reach the road, he knows what he's going to do.

_Collection of Stormcloaks further up the road. Note the lanterns._ Looks like Solitude is out of the question then. Barnabas turns around, the perusing Stormcloaks are close to hot on their heels. T_hree meters and dropping rapidly_. He glances down the road, then downwards towards the docks. _Numerous chances for asca_-

Tullius shouts out suddenly and Barnabas turns towards him so violently he catches himself of guard. _Eyebrows lowered, mouth opened, jaw pushed forwards, eyes widened. Pain and anger._ Barnabas' singles out the cause, he's been hit. _Singular arrowhead, upper left arm_. The sounds of footsteps are close. _Recommend moving towards the docks, far right route_. Easier said then done, the route is filled with rocks. _Keep hold of the General this time._

He grabs him again, somewhat more gently this time around and runs right-ways, narrowly missing a low blow from one of the advancing Stormcloaks. There comes more from the collection further up the road. _Total number of perusers, nineteen_. He runs all that little bit faster at the realisation. Tullius' breaths are getting more urgent, Barnabas takes up the rear in order to both slow his gait down enough to keep vital amounts of energy and to keep the General moving. Better him that gets hit, at any rate. They sprint over sharp rocks, and Tullius suddenly shouts out.

"Drop!"

"Just do it!" Barnabas shouts back and no sooner then he does, he's jumping too. They both land heavily, Barnabas looses his footing and slips on the waterlogged ground. His uniform is made heavier, but the freezing cold cools his burning skin. When he clambers upwards, he notes the profound bleeding. The General has one hand clamped over his arm, but crimson seeps through his fingers and through the fabric of his uniform.

"We have to move, N-."

Then there comes a solid blow to his lower back and he's down against the grass again. He shouts, his mouth filling with rainwater and slush and mud and grass as he tries to get upwards again but another kick his sent to his ribs and he's spun onto his back. Quintillus can't register where the General is, because when he's finally looking upwards, his lungs slam accusingly against his ribcage and his heart just _stops._ Not just stutters, or freezes, or skips a few beats. Full-on stops, cold, dead. Paralysing no nonsense _fear _seeps through his limbs and he can't even think any more. His entire thought process is completely fried by the image of a massive Stormcloak rebel brings his arm upwards to give the killing blow. Battle axe gripped loosely, grinning, his blue eyes gleaming in the semi-light.

It's just one of those moments where you completely give up, and alienated from an early age or not, Barnabas is no exception. Everything is numb, his hands are covering his face but he can't feel anything. He knows he's pulling against the now much shorter strands of hair upon his head, but the only thing he notes is the sensation of strands ripping free. A dull pulling motion, no pain. The most he can do is just wait and just hope it's not going to hurt and just hope it winds up ending quickly and-

Nothing is happening.

"By the Order of the Jarl!"

"Stop right there!"

"On the ground, hands on your heads!"

"In the name of the Emperor Titus Mede II, I hear-by place you under militart-"

Barnabas pulls himself upwards to sit with his legs spread out before him. The Stormcloak that was intending to kill him is dead a few feet away, the glint of an arrowhead lodged in his jugular. Tullius ambles towards him idly, fixing him with another one of his damned unreadable looks.

"Thought you was going to die, again?" He questions and Barnabas shakes his head.

"Too close." He breathes, holding a fistful of fabric just above his heart. "That, Sir. That was far, far to close."

* * *

He was right, it was _far_ to close.

It had been the running that had caught the attention of the nearby Solitude Guards, and then, eventually the nearest of the Imperial Legionnaires. A few seconds later, Barnabas would have either been dead or he'd have been dying at least. Any longer after that, and the General would have either been captured or dead alongside. Six of the Nineteen surrendered to Imperial custody and are most likely to wind up with either execution or lock up, at any rate.

The rest of them are buried right there.

"It's only bruising," Rikke tells him from somewhere in his blind spot. Barnabas does not reply verbally, but lowers his head in acknowledgement. She presses a hand against his bare shoulder, he's fine, but somewhere beyond the wall the General is getting stitched up himself. He feels limp and drained, and he keeps on thinking about old memories that bring up strange moods.

They could have lost the war, they could have lost it, right there and then.

The thought bounds around his skull for an extended period of time, even when Rikke puts a drink before him, he does not take it. He's shivering, but he doesn't feel cold. The castle itself is almost frigid at this time of night and moonlight illuminates the entrance of the war room through an open doorway. The candles are burning low, casting the majority of the room into darkness. Legate Rikke collapses in one of the chairs opposite him.

"Sometimes I wonder if the gods have abandoned us... as we have abandoned them." Rikke mutters and Barnabas snaps his head up to stare at her levelly. His expression is odd, as is his mood. Somewhere in the distance he can hear the echoing of dinner plates and ration tins.

Food will probably calm him down and warm him up. He makes it the next thing on his agenda.

"I'm not religious." Barnabas stares dully, his brows knitting together as he traces the edge of the chair's arm distractedly. What he meant to say was 'I don't understand.' but he can't get the words out.

Rikke sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose gently. "I know."

She knows what he means, she came to terms with it all long ago. They all have, for one another in some respect.

They let the minutes tick along in silence, the extent of Quintillus' bruising is not severe. He's had far worse, but it is no less irritating. He can't turn his head to the right.

It's a common theme with him, injury. He's always been a bit gung-ho and his refusal to stand aside and let his men fight for him just adds to the mess. It's enough for some of the younger lads to come to the delusion that he's somehow invincible.

The Legate isn't of course, far from it. But it's good for morale he supposes, so he grudgingly allows it.

General Tullius arrives sometime after midnight, his uniform is in bits and he's showing a bandage which looks as if it covers the majority of his upper arm, but aside from that he appears in good health. Perhaps a little exhausted, hungry and in need of a strong drink. But he's hardly the only one in that regard.

"There's reports of the Auxiliary delivering a war axe to Windhelm." The General looks towards Rikke, Barnabas too follows his gaze. They are looking for an explanation, they are foreigners after all.

"Its a gesture between two warriors..." Rikke starts and Barnabas comes up to one conclusion straight away. His expression falls and grimaces hard.

"He's going to march on Whiterun."

"Not if he takes it."

"He won't." Barnabas gives Rikke a long look, "You know him more then I do, Rikke - and I know what happens next."

The General starts to fold his arms, however stops when he realises with a sharp stab of pain. "He's proven he can best an opponent. Now he wants to prove that his collection of farmers can."

"Balgruuf is still declining?" Barnabas asks, leaning against the back of his chair and rubbing his jaw absently. His gaze is fixed on some part of the table beyond him.

"You can't make a Nord accept help he hasn't asked for." Rikke mutters, and Barnabas snorts.

"Of course not."

"Regardless." The General begins, "If Ulfric's making a move for Whiterun, then we need to be there to stop him." He turns to Rikke, "Draft another letter with the usual platitudes, but this time share some of your intelligence regarding Ulfric's plans. Embellish if you have to. We'll let it seem like it's his idea."

"Yes, Sir." Rikke nods and Tullius glances at Barnabas.

"How do you feel about orchestrating the defence of the Capital of Whiterun hold?"

"On one respectful condition, General."

Barnabas glances upwards, his mouth pulled into a thin line.

"I lead it."


	8. The Defence of Whiterun, Part One

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**Author's Note: **It's official. I have **no** idea what I'm doing when it comes to tactics. So, excuse the badness of the War council. Anyway. This chapter is way longer then I originally intended it to be ._. I have no idea what happened. If it makes people feel better, I will put it into two parts if that's what they want.

Also, _lots_ of thankyou's go out to the reviewers ^_^ I'm flattered to see that people are not only enjoying it, but are intrigued by the storyline as well.

So, without further ado, I give you Barnabas:

* * *

**The Defence of Whiterun, Part One.**  
The Fifth Century.

When he opens his eyes, he's cold and wet.

"Upon my honour, I do swear undying loyalty to the Empire, Titus Mede the Second and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire..."

Barnabas turns around abruptly, eyes darting around the strangely familiar surroundings, towards the voice only heard in distant memories.

'_Oh if it was only that easy_.'

"…How the fuck."

There's a smaller male stood beside him, clad in the amour of footsoldier, a confident smirk plastered on his features. The glow around them is familiar, the furniture- he's indoors, he's in his commanding officer's office. Sixth room down, on the right...

'_Imperial City, Imperial Legion headquarters_. _Second floor, third corridor on the left.._.'

Barnabas glares at the smaller male, only to find him stood before what shouldn't-be-his-commanding-officer. He's even smaller now.

'_What, don't you remember_?' Laurel green eyes narrow in cruelty.

Barnabas shuts his mouth when he realises that he shouldn't be anywhere but his bed. His ribs and neck don't hurt much either.

'_Better a insane lucid dream then that, ey' Quintillus_?'

"Shut up."

Barney purses his lips, and it's here that Barnabas realises that, shit. He was such a dick when he was younger.

"May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty."

Barnabas blinks, "What are you doing?"

'_What does it look like_,' Barney snaps, '_Throwing my life away, Legate._'

When he blinks again he's face to face with himself, though still younger. '_You should remember all of this_,' Barney mutters.

"What the fuck is going on?"

'_We are at war, Caesenius._'

Barney grins, shrugging his shoulders and Barnabas hits himself hard. He needs to wake up. He's not crazy... or at least, not that type of crazy, so he has to be dreaming. He has to be.

"That doesn't explain... this." Barnabas grimaces, stepping away and finding himself suddenly knee deep in grass.

'_Nothing ever doe_s,'

"All stories with happy endings are lies."

The Legate runs a hand through his hair, panic slowly rising like an upcoming storm. He should't be going though this. Why wont he just WAKE UP.

"Just do it!"

'_Is it really that hard_?' Barney smirks, palms sticky with the blood of his comrades, a helmet three sizes too big covering his face.

"Are you going to make a better effort this time, Tirone Quintillus?!"

Barnabas turns around, the faces of what would have been his Contubernium are staring back at him.

"I can't." The Legate murmurs, "I don't understand."

Barney walks over towards the seven other Legionnaires, and just like that, they fall down instantly.

"Unlucky sods."

The Legate nearly throws up, the only thing stopping him is the fact that none of this is REAL.

"Pathetic."

'_Really now, is this the only time you've remembered_?' Barney asks, he's kneeling by Barnabas and the Legate looks down at him through narrowed eyes. '_Everything you've done_?'

"Who the fuck are you, really?"

'_I'm Barney, you dim witted idiot_.'

"No... I'm-"

'_The Legate, Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort, __Second Lieutenant to General Tulluis._' Barney glances past Barnabas and makes a small noise in the way of realisation, '_Oh, well would you look at that_.'

"The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!"

Barnabas sends his hand towards a sword handle that's not there and dives towards his six to face an enemy that's not advancing.

'_Perhaps the Reachmen are not the only monsters_.'

"Shut UP." Barnabas hisses, "I don't have to deal with this!"

Barney gives him a long sideways look, '_If you don't, who does?_'

Barnabas makes to resort, but he's not looking at the younger man again. He's looking at himself.

"Permission to fall down dead, SIR!"

And with that, Decanus Barnabas Quintillus is smacked away violently. Legate Barnabas Quintillus turns to find the face of Tullius, though...no it's not Tullius. His Tullius' hair doesn't have any of it's original brown.

The-One-That-Isn't-Tullius looks directly at him, eyes narrowed.

"Quntillius, get. Out. There!"

'_Oh just fuck off and die, Gaius._' Barney mutters, elbowing Barnabas hard in the stomach. He's wearing his armour. Why is he wearing his armour?

"I best be going then."

Going where?

'_And you too, Barnabas. Take care_.'

He needs to get ou-

* * *

Legate Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort jerks violently awake, bolting upright he feels the world tilt heavily as the blood rushes from his head. He gaps, chokes and his heart slams in his chest at uneven rhythms. It continues like this for a few more minutes, until he realises that, he's back home. Not in some fucked up part of his sub-concious, but home.

Home.

He means Castle Dour.

Quintillus groans deeply, slamming the heel of his palm against his forehead and collapsing back against his pillow. So it was just a dream then. Thank the Eight. He can feel his fingers straining with each small movement, and he idly notes that he's clenched his sheets so hard he's pulled them into deformity. Breathing hard through his nose, he rubs his face, then around the back of his neck. Nervous sweat dampens his palm. The Legate stares up at the roof for an extended period of time, dully listening to the sounds of military life beyond his door and it's during this point that the almost unwelcome need to be lazy begins to make itself known. However, the need for both productivity and the nagging worry at the back of his mind win out straight away.

Breathing hard through his nose, he passes a hand over his face again and swings his bare feet around to rest against the cold stone. Toes curling, he listens.

It's quieter then usual.

Knowing the gravity of this particular day, Barnabas does not know if it's a good thing or a bad one. He weighs it all up as he goes through his usual morning routine and it finally gets to the point where he's adjusting his breastplate that he realises that he just doesn't give a damn either way. It's not something he's particularly unused to. The Legate catches his reflection on his helmet and he scowls with as much petulance he can muster at such an hour.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" He mutters venomously, scooping it up with his free hand and backtracking in order to turn around and leave the room.

Like all senior officers, Barnabas was entitled to his own quarters. It wasn't anything special, as far as they are concerned. If anything it was close enough to the barracks to ensure that you felt in place. Quintillus thunders down the steps towards the main floor of what is officially the Second Cohort's area, nodding firmly when two guards at the doorway salute smartly. Shoving the door open, he blinks as bright light smacks into the back of his irises. Pausing just outside to slip his helmet on, he swears inwardly when he realises that it's gone past noon.

Legionnaires of all calibre amble around on some duty or another, a few of them salute and a few of them don't, he's moving too quickly for them to notice the insignia of rank upon his shoulder plates or the crest on the top of his helmet. Those who do notice are either looking right at him or seem to recognise him full stop, and that, Barnabas is unspokenly grateful for. He's still feeling pretty raw, last thing he wants it to be hounded by platitudes. There is a lot of movement, a considerable amount more then usual and when he reaches the doorway to what would be the series of War rooms, he glances back with a strange feeling of familiarity.

He pushes it to the back of his mind no sooner that it arises. He has things to be doing, no point in getting distracted.

"General Tullius, Sir." Barnabas grunts, saluting casually and the General waves a hand without looking up. Barnabas takes the time to reassure himself that whatever the fuck happened in that dream, really, did not happen in some respect. The Tullius in that borderline on mental breakdown was younger, here, the Tullius he knows has a head full of iron strands and looks on the wrong side of fifty. Everything he's used to, nothing more and nothing less.

Well, there's the bandage on his arm.

Barnabas diverts his gaze.

Standing amongst the maps strewn across the map room, Barnabas picks one of and examines it idly. The Legate loves maps, he always has done and he notes that fact with some difficulty. Glancing around the room, he watches silently as a few soldiers begin taking furniture up into one of the upper levels. "How many people will be attending tonight?" He asks and his question is answered by Legate Rikke, who comes walking in with several folded parchments under one arm.

"Twenty six of us in total." She sighs, handing him a thick dossier of reports. He grimaces as he takes it.

"Who else is coming aside from the seniors?"

"Jarl Balgruuf will be attending alongside his steward and housecarl." The General glances upwards, just in time to catch the look Barnabas flashes. "Now listen to me when I say this, Legate." Barnabas reluctantly glances his way, "Don't go starting any trouble. I have enough on the plate with the Thalmor as it is."

"Last thing we need is Skyrim's Jarls against us." Rikke agrees.

Barnabas grunts, "Jarl." He corrects, however puts both hands up in mock surrender when both of them give him looks. "I'll be a good boy," He assures and Rikke gives him one of those smiles that indicates mild annoyance with small bouts of fondness.

He pointedly doesn't remind himself that those are his favourites.

"Have you seen your new Legionnaires, Quintillus?" The General asks, Barnabas raises an eyebrow.

"I've arranged for Fulvius to bring them up to the courtyard, they should be here for inspection soon."

Tullius nods, "Good man."

Although it's brief, Barnabas bottom lip quirks upwards.

* * *

After the Reach Incident, the Second Cohort had to get by without the Fifth Century.

Now they are getting reinforcements, and the surviving members have been transferred back into their groups. A lot of the original men and women arrive in new armours of higher rank, they had lost a lot of officers in the original ambush. It's a reminder the Legate can't quite shake.

One of the main reasons why Barnabas is renowned is due to how he sets out his officers. Every commanding officer runs his cohort is different, granted, but Quintillus is the only Legate to order his officers according to experience and age. He's not biased, per say - there are a few officers who are younger and they have archived that through sheer skill and determination, but they at the end of the day are rarities. In fact, the Legate doesn't like having anyone under the age of at least twenty under his command at all, and he's made that point clear, time and time again.

"They don't make Imperial Amour in children's sizes." He had once told Tullius, back when recruiting from Cyrodiil was actually possible.

He doesn't mind taking in Nordic Auxiliaries, providing they are quick to train and can follow orders, but he will never, ever fully accept youngsters under his command.

Hell, look how he turned out.

It's not just that, and he knows it. Soldiers die, it's just what happens, but young, fresh faced youngsters die even quicker and it's just one of those things Barnabas can't cope with. Warfare demands experience and a lot of these... well, _children_, haven't had anything but a bit of theory and exercise. It's one of the reasons why he's at odds with Ulfric and his Stormcloaks. They both take up youngsters and send them to their deaths, but the Legion is strictly professional about it. It's a _profession_, not a cause. Once you are in the Legion, you are in it for life. One way or another.

At any rate, when he sees the thirty, fresh faced Nordic Auxiliaries standing to attention before him, the Legate exhales hard and slips a mask of indifference upon his face.

"Listen up, Fifth Century!"

He ends up standing under one of the archways, away from the hustle and bustle of the courtyard once he is finished with his introductory. Pipe clenched between his teeth and arms folded across his armoured chest, the Legate watches his new Century run through drills with an air of dull interest. The Centurion in charge, Leia Fulvius, commands a certain amount of toughness from those under her command, and she is not being lax at the moment. Not with Whiterun on the horizon. Quintillus makes sure to stay within sight range, he has placed a large amount of trust in his Centurion, yes, but he doesn't do so completely. It's her first real command of a full century and he doesn't want her going overboard.

After all, he doesn't want them too exhausted to fight. They've only just got here.

"Are those your new kids?" Rikke asks, coming up from behind his right. He nods, puffing on his pipe silently. "By the Eight, how old are they?"

"Youngest is sixteen." Barnabas grunts.

"And you didn't go the the General about it?" Her eyebrows are raised.

"No."

"Huh."

They stand in silence for awhile longer, and Barnabas sighs. "How long have we got until they all arrive?"

"We only have the Jarl to wait for," Rikke explains, "All the other Legates are here."

"It's going to be a long night." Barnabas grumbles.

Legate Rikke takes the pipe from his hand, sticking it in her own mouth. "You said it."

* * *

When they are all set up and ready, each Legate arrives and takes their place. General Tullius stands at the head of the large table, with Legate Rikke on his right and Barnabas on his left. The rest of the table is taken up by the Legates and each cohort's Primus Pilus, followed by Jarl Balgruuf, who has his Housecarl on the right and his Steward on the left.

Barnabas recognises each Legate in one way or another, usually, Legates don't tend to mix all that often. As they tend to at different parts of Skyrim at each one time. Barnabas' case is actually quite rare, being the second Lieutenant, his responsibility is shared between both the Reach and Castle Dour. He knows Adventus because the man frequents the Winking Skeever often and they fought in the same Cohort back in the Great War, but the rest of the Legates he is relativity unfamiliar with. He knows them enough to put a name to a face.

It takes a good hour and a half to get them all sorted out, but soon thereafter they are in full swing.

"Ulfric's forces will be coming from two main directions, west from the regions of Eastmarch and the Rift and then north from Hjaalmarch and the Pale, both of which will have significant reinforcements from Winterhold." He explains at one point, pointing to key parts of the large map spread out on top of the table. Dozens of pairs of eyes look at where his hand is pointing, the others state at Quintillus sceptically.

Jarl Balgruuf bristles, "Tell me something I don't know, Legate." Barnabas raises his eyebrows.

"He will have thrice the man power coming from the east then he will the north."

Before he can get another dig in, Rikke takes over. "Reports suggest that Ulfric's forces are crowding just beyond Ivarstead. By the looks of things, they are planning to march on from there, through to Helgen and then past Riverwood to attack the front gates."

"What about the forces from the North?" One of the Legates, Fasendil, asks.

"Likelihood is, they will attempt to take Whiterun from two sides, the north and a south-easterly direction. Stormcloaks are better at overwhelming then holding, the more they lean to offensive, the better off they are." Rikke nods and Barnabas swings in straight afterwards.

"Which they will be," He indicates to one part of the map, "From their current movements- can I have the dossier please," He holds out his hand for a slim collection of papers. "Ulfric's main officers have split into numerous bands of around, lets say for reference, just under a Legion century."

"And, how many of these 'bands' will there be?" Proventus Avenicci asks, he's one of the few who are sat down.

"Tens? Dozens? The information is not yet clear, all we do know is the patterns in which they are to strike." Rikke sighs.

"Ulfric is hardly the pioneer in Military Strategy." Barnabas grunts, "Nordic warrior or no, he's been trained to be a Legionnaire before." He turns towards Rikke, pulling a face. "If you ask me, this entire siege just stinks of Battle of the Red Ring."

Quentin Cipius shakes his head, "He wouldn't be that dim, surely."

"Oh no, what's where his rebels will come in." The General replies darkly, nodding towards Barnabas.

"Stormcloaks don't have much in the way of formation, they'll hit hard and they'll hit fast."

"What do you propose?" Jarl Balgruuf asks quietly, eyes fixed on the Legate stood before him.

"For the sake of Whiterun, I propose that we place close to all of our available resources into the defence." Just when Balgruuf goes to relax his posture however, Barnabas adds hastily. "However, this is where you come in, Jarl Balgruuf."

There is a pause from the Jarl.

"Go on."

Legate Rikke clears her throat, leaning forwards against the table. "Most of our men will be fighting outside your walls, we need whatever manpower you can spare to defend inside."

"Chances are they will have catapults." Cipius adds.

"They will have catapults, there is no doubt about it. Fire, mortars. They want your city's wall close to intact if this information is correct, Legate Rikke." Barnabas tilts his head over towards the woman and she nods.

"It is,"

"Then the news is grim." Balgruuf sighs.

"So how much are we putting in exactly? Is the whole Fourth Legion to just dump sticks and run to Whiterun?" One of the Legates Barnabas cant' quite see asks.

"Not quite," The General waves a hand at Barnabas "Quintillus, explain."

And he does so instantly, "A few of the Junior Legates held in Stormcloak controlled regions will have to fall back to Imperial allied holds. Part of what Ulfric wants is for the Legion's already thinly spread forces wiped out, if we all move back..."

"And regroup to form one bigger, stronger force." Adventus follows on through narrowed eyes.

"His rebels will have a much harder time." Avenicci summarises, Barnabas nods his head.

"That leaves most of the Holds defenceless." Balgruuf ticks his head upwards, and Rikke holds one hand up.

"Not quite, Winterhold will be holding it's Stormcloak residence there, we will do the same in Solitude. The Imperial camps in the Rift and the Pale will move towards Whiterun and reside in it's borders, least they get wiped out in the beginning dash." She takes a breath, indicating towards Barnabas "Once the majority of the Stormcloak forces are wiped out, they will get back to their original positions as soon as possible" She looks upwards for the Legate of the Rift. She finds him close to the end of the table."Fasendil however, you keep half your forces in the Rift. Tituleius, you have smaller centuries, chances are you'll get out unseen."

"Where should I house my remaining forces?" Fasendil asks.

"Past Shor's Stone are the mountains that border on Morrowind, set up a series of small encampments and keep those men out of sight and out of range." Barnabas replies, throwing him a series of rolled up maps. It lands just out of the man's reach, and has to be pushed along by another Legate's commanding centurion.

"We don't want to completely exhaust our entire forces on one battle." General Tullius reminds him.

"Which is why, we are going to do thusly, take notes if you will. I will address each Legate separately, then go over the plan as a whole. The key here, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Legion is defence. Ulfric wants Whiterun so he can have central access to each and every hold." Barnabas grimaces. "We, are not going to let that happen."

"By the gods no." One of the Nordic Legates grunts in reply, a few others nod their heads.

"Legate Caesenius, your current centuries are relatively intact, a total of four hundred and twenty Legionnaires, officers included." Barnabas looks up from his documents, leaning one arm against the table and pointing a finger at the Legate of Solitude, "I want you and your First, Second and Third centuries to stay within the borders of Haafingar, if it all goes to shit, you're our main back up." He grins when a few of the other men wince at his apparent choice of words. "Centuries fifth and sixth will move against the Stormcloaks coming from the North under the command of Cipius, whom I will get to shortly."

"I understand, did you get that Axius?" Caesenius grumbles, his Commanding Centurion nods enthusiastic.

"Yes sir,"

"Any comments?" There comes a series of head shakes. "No, good."

"Junior Legate Tituleius," Rikke takes on, "You have, to remove your forces from the Pale completely. Ulfric's southbound forces, while in smaller amounts. will be wiping out any Imperial camps they comes across." The General makes a face at the news, and Barnabas tilts his head downwards to stare at the map some more. "In the interest of keeping as many Legionnaires alive as possible for the final attack, you are to move your men the camps west of Whiterun. Once there, split your men into two groups, keep one encamped and the other will support me in defence of the main gates." Tituleius licks his bottom lip in thought "I understand you have heavy armed forces, take them to the city. Least the Stormcloaks get close."

"Well Tituleius?" The General calls.

"Understand completely, General."

"Legate Fasendil, like I explained earlier, have half your forces encamped in the mountains relatively early on. The other half will move alongside the white river and wait alongside there. If the Stormcloaks begin to retreat back into Eastmarch, you are to intercept them." Barnabas spreads his fingers out, hesitating at the remainder of the sentence."If it goes pear shaped... begin coming in behind the rebels." He inwardly sighs, "That ok with you, Legate?"

"I'll get it done, Quintillus." Fasendil responds calmly.

"Hrollod. Similarly to Fasendil, march towards Whiterun and keep your men on the outskirts to the mountainside, if all goes well, you are to attack the forces that try and enter Eastmarch." The General leads on, "Cipius, you are our main Whiterun man. Though, the hits you have taken to the second and third century are extensive if reports suggest correctly. To compensate, keep all your centuries in the walls of Whiterun, however we will need at least one to aid Rikke in defence."

"My Fifth Century is in good condition." Cipius rubs the back of his neck, he nods towards his Commanding Centurion.

"Send them, then." Barnabas grumbles, "That acceptable, General?"

"Perfectly."

"Now, Telendas. With your men in Winterhold, we won't be able to evacuate you. So you will have to stay within the borders."

"Any other way?" The Legate in question look somewhat alarmed and Barnabas glances around the room.

"Unless anyone has any other suggestions."

There comes a lot of frowning, but only one of them speaks up. Telendas' Primus hesitates, but he's spurred onwards when the General tilts his head upwards. "Well come on son, the sooner we have suggestions the better."

"What about moving them to the Pale?" He offers, Barnabas seems to be thinking it over, and Rikke looks towards the man's Legate.

"How many men do you currently have, Telendas?"

Telendas shrugs, "Three full strength centuries."

"Keep them in Winterhold, move them around if necessary. Having Imperial Legionnaires in the furthest reaches of Skyrim is difficult enough without drawing attention to themselves." The General orders and Barnabas nods his head in acknowledgement. "Skulnar, you are to move your men towards the Rift, keep them near what's... left, of Helgen. Don't intercept them straight away, but rather lie in wait until they have passed and come in behind them."

"Understood, General." The Nordic Legate rumbles.

"Now for the Cavalry." Barnabas sighs, he's starting to feel uncomfortable. His helmet is making one side of his head heavier then the other. "General, you said you had something in mind?"

"With the Second Centuries' soldiers moving from west to east, Legate Desticius, you must bring your cavalry upwards from The Reach and start by sending any Stormcloaks coming from the North backwards." Tullius orders and the Legate of the Cavalry nods at the command.

"He should loop around Whiterun after that." Barnabas suggests "Having men on horseback would make the pushing eastward much easier."

"That is acceptable." The General says, watching the rest of the table for reactions. He instantly zooms in on the Jarl.

The man suddenly blurts out, "All of this is brilliant, but with all due respect. It's a lot to ask for."

"Yes, how do we know that you won't competently exhaust yourselves?" Avenicci asks, eyebrows raising at an inhumanly large height.

"We will," Barnabas sighs after a moment of silence "It's that simple."

"You can't be serious." The Jarl replies, his tone is lower and he is watching Barnabas intensely.

"With what we are doing, almost every part of Imperial allied territory is covered, one way or another. The Jarls will be protected from any Stormcloak attack." Quintillus replies carefully, his eyes narrowing under the shade of his helmet.

"And, those men that would have been left vulnerable in Stormcloak allied territories will be moved to safer locations until the siege is over." Rikke adds, ending the power struggle before it even begins.

"All of this, and the defence of Whiterun will be strong?" Avenicci asks.

"You have my word on it." Barnabas shrugs.

The Jarl suddenly snaps "Don't keep any promises you can keep, Imperial."

"With all due respect, Jarl Balgruuf. We wouldn't be here if Quintillus wasn't willing to put his word on it." The General is quick to come to his Legate's defence, but it's nothing to do with Barnabas' image as a tactical advisor. He's trying to stop any potential battles.

But Barnabas is not that easily calmed, he makes sure to come up top. "Not just my word, either. Those are my men fighting out there."

"We are still exhausting every resource we have." One of the Legates notes, folding his arms.

"We are not going to sugar coat it for you, the extensiveness of such a plan will put major strain on every cohort." Legate Rikke looks at every other person individually.

"What about the losses?"

"Significant." Barnabas mutters. He's already done the calculations.

"And you are willing to go through with this?" The Jarl suddenly bounces in, "You just said, those will be your men."

"I don't like sending young men to their deaths, but at the end of the day Jarl Balgruuf. It's the reason that we are here." Barnabas snaps without meaning to, leaning forwards against the table and glaring past the rim of his helmet. It's a stupid move, as the General indicates straight afterwards.

"Legate..." He warns, but Quintillus is no longer listening. His posture is ridged and he's starting right across.

"To throw your lives away for the benefit of a country that is not your homeland?" The Jarl asks, his tone venturing to that of disbelief.

"Barnabas Don't-" Rikke starts, but Barnabas is already in there.

"I have a duty to the Imperial Legion, not Skyrim. Nor do I Whiterun." The Legate stands up bolt upright, his fists clenching. "As far as I am concerned, Jarl Balgruuf. I'm here to quell a rebellion." He peers at the man, tilting his head up for the man to see his expression. "I can do that _without_ Whiterun, if it's such a problem."

The General sends a hand against Barnabas' breastplate, sending him into his seat. "We should continue," he calls, giving the Legate a pointed look.

"That would be best." Balgruuf agrees.

Legate Rikke takes on, glancing at the now sulking Quintillus in the corner of her eye, "The Legion is spread thin at Morthal, Dawnstar, Winterhold, Faulkreath and the Rift. I can expect numerous camps to be lost as a result. Any ideas?"

"Take the camps down, we can set them up again if we pull through." The General shrugs.

"I can see my fellow Jarls becoming quite upset with the events." Balgruuf sighs, and Tullius rubs his brow. He'd thought of that, but it's a risk they will have to take. "They will demand explanations, General."

"Serious political roadblock or not, if we loose Whiterun, the Stormcloaks will have a central position."

There is a moment where everyone lets the comment sink in.

"Does everyone agree?" Barnabas suddenly stands, and there comes a series of hesitant nods from around the table. "Then the Stormcloaks, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Legion. Will _not_, have a central position." He turns towards the General and nods his head, "Well I think that's about it."

"You are excused," The General orders suddenly to the remaining Legates. There comes a large shuffling motion and they all begin to wander out slowly. Barnabas relocates himself to one of the uninhabited corners, shortly followed by Rikke.

"Do you honestly think this will work." She asks, folding her arms and giving him one of her trademark looks.

"I've been a tactical advisor for well over thirty years, Rikke." Barnabas shrugs "If I'm not confident now, then we are more screwed then I originally thought."

"Are you confident?"

"Enough to stick a red flag on Windhelm's insignia in the near future." Barnabas replies, his eyes narrowing dangerously.


	9. The Defence of Whiterun, Part Two

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**The Defence of Whiterun, Part Two.  
**His fellow Legionnaires.

For the majority of the evening he watches it silently. There's two of them, knocked into the earth a set distance apart, but he's only really interested in the one towards the right. It stands facing away from him, towards the east, pushing against the breeze.

That'll be a problem, he muses. If it doesn't change direction, they'll have a headwind in their face. Headwind means dust, dust means difficulty seeing and difficulty seeing almost certainly means a Stormcloak axe to the face. Or the torso. Or the arms. Or anywhere really. He better pack a shield... but that's a stupid thought because he always has a shield. Even senior ranked footsoldiers have to have shields... he better go check he has his. If he doesn't, Tullius will get right pissed off. He's supposed to lead by exampl-

Ok, that's enough.

He shifts to avoid putting pressure on his numb left arm, rubbing the bridge of his nose while watching the flag as it pushes against the breeze, curling around the post like a protective lover. Admittedly, he shouldn't be out here. He should be inside his tent working on the last minute plans before the siege, but he's got a headache. And he's tired, but the headache is worse. It often is.

It's a petty excuse, but at the moment he can't think straight without his head pounding his thoughts into Oblivion. Not having a plan is much better then having a botched plan, after all.

"What happened to your hair?" The Auxiliary asks, and Barnabas turns his head to watch her approach. She wavers slightly, "- And your beard, you shaved your beard!?"

The Legate gives her a look, removing his pipe from his mouth to speak clearly. "It fell off, clearly."

She mirrors his expression.

"I shaved."

"I guessed as much." She sits next to him, close enough that he can feel the dip in land when she shifts. "What I really asked, was why."

"You should be back at Whiterun," He tells her, clenching his pipe between his incisors. He can see his bodyguards shifting to keep an eye on his new visitor. It mildly irritates him, he knows, but he's supposed to be better then that - he's not supposed to care - so he pretends he doesn't and that's enough to trick his exhausted mind. "The attack could come at any moment."

It's his subtlety that stops him from smacking himself. The attack could come at any moment, and here he is, exhausted, head-achy and conversing with a barbarian-bred stupid excuse for a soldier.

'_That was a little harsh_...'

She turns her head to stare at him straight, but he doesn't make himself meet her eyes. Some stupid part of him feels bad. "You avoid answering my question."

"I'm your superior, Auxiliary. I come first. Grace me with an answer and I may bother to do the same."

"_Charming_."

Barnabas snorts and she leans backwards against the grass. She's wearing her uniform, he notes with a dull amount of appreciation.

"I'm on my way to Whiterun, I just thought I'd stop by to see my favourite Legate."

She gets a look for that comment, but she either doesn't notice or is ignoring it. Nobody says that. Ever. Barnabas goes out of his way to appear like a superior bastard. It's how he functions.

Unless she's joking, and that thought cools down his rapidly increasing confusion.

"What did Ulfric say?" He asks, the Legate in him wouldn't particularly care, but when he's exhausted he can't comprehend to his usual rate. It leaves him feeling more... well, humane he supposes. Less of a killing machine and more of a man.

It's not a frequently recurring experience, so he still doesn't completely know what to think about it. What he does know however, is that he doesn't belong here when he's like this. Hence his impromptu isolation. He's softer when he's like this, more open to emotional responses. It's not a bad thing, he knows. Hell, he'd be overjoyed if he knew what to _do_ with it all. So he'll wait it out, then fall back on the stuff he understands.

Until then however, he'll sit and talk and just roll with the punches.

The Auxiliary shrugs, "He said to expect his Stormcloaks soon." she makes to say something else, but shuts her jaw abruptly.

"What is it?"

She looks at him hard, for a long time. Some part of him thinks she knows, knows that she can't hide things from a man like him.

"He said it was a shame I was on the wrong side."

Barnabas for one doesn't care about politics. But he's a learner as much as he is a thinker - and he wants to know this. To understand something about this rag-tag Dragonborn for once. Leaning back on both his elbows, he frowns. "What about you?"

"What about me?" She mutters, but the look she flashes for that minuscule moment shows she knows what he means. She's smart enough to, after all and Barnabas isn't about to let her idly brush the matter off.

"Do _you_ think _you_ are on the right side?"

She's shocked to hear the words out loud. Usually Barnabas has little to no tolerance to anybody who isn't clad in an Imperial uniform. It's an impression that tends to amplify, even without him saying so. "Of course I'm on the right side," She replies and Barnabas sighs quietly.

"Pretend I'm not the Legate for a moment, then answer the question again."

"I know I'm on the right side." She says, firmly and she's scowling. Barnabas nods his head, and something in her expression changes. "What would you have done, if I had said otherwise?"

"Nothing, probably." He shrugs, and it's true. Chances are he probably wouldn't have done anything. Perhaps, back when he first met her he would have killed her then and there. Or, he would have dragged her back to Solitude kicking and screaming for a public execution.

Now though... He sees something different in the girl, he doesn't know if it's because he's calmer here or what, but he does.

"I joined the Legion because Ulfric isn't thinking far enough."

Barnabas snaps his head towards his right, searching her face for any clue to what in Oblivion he had just _heard_. "I beg your pardo-"

"Ulfric isn't looking far enough to see that his rebellion won't last the year."

Here is a lull in the conversation, "How so?" He eventually asks, quietly, his brow lowered.

She smiles idly, "The Dominion for one," and then the Dragonborn looks at him again. "You know as well as I do, the Legion is spread thin but it's bigger - more organised. They know what they are doing." Barnabas crosses one leg, his boots digging harshly into the exposed skin on his upper kneecap. "That's two..."

"And three?"

The Auxiliary sighs, "If Skyrim could keep whole, I'd like that." Barnabas nods, though he doesn't completely understand the words behind her statement. He's only ever fought for a country once, the rest of the times they have been... well. He doesn't know that one. With a frown, he makes it number one priority to find out why. They both look into the creeping darkness for a long time, "We could die tomorrow." She eventually states and Barnabas smirks.

"We could die right now." He grumps, leaning forwards. "Well, perhaps not me."

The Auxiliary actually laughs, "Is that all true?"

"Don't go betting on it." He mutters. In truth, he doesn't know what it is. It's not luck. He hates luck. With that thought however, he tenses. "Try not to die tomorrow," He says, "I'm running out of people I like."

It's a brash statement, true, but she seems to take it as a compliment at any rate.

* * *

Morning comes with a murky, low lying fog. The air is cold, but somehow thick with something he can't quite decipher. Quintillus has spent enough time in the different regions of Tamriel to know it will be a hot noon, and it amazes him how quickly the weather can change in this country. His amazement is quashed as soon as it arises however with the realisation that he'll be decked in seventy pounds of armour thought. He's been through worse temperatures, but that was when he was a standard footsoldier. Now he has to contend with the weight of his officer's helmet and the somewhat unnecessary insignias of rank upon his shoulders and arms.

He knows it helps with identification in the battlefield, but really now. It's unnecessary.

Barnabas eyes the landscape before him critically, stood firm, his arms folded. The cold pushes against his skin with relative ease, being in nothing but the thin series of tunics and all, but he doesn't give it any mind.

"You ready to gear up?" Durgash asks him, the Orc stands just behind him on his left and Quintillus' shoulder twitches at the confirmation. He wont be fighting in the battle, per say. The chances of losing him are to high and it will be seen as a big, big act of foolishness on his part. Unlike Rikke who has to contend with the forces attacking the gate, he'll be over-viewing an actual battlefield strategy. He doesn't like it - quite frankly he hates it, but there is little else he can do unless it all goes south. Orders are Orders, after all and Tullius made it quite clear he wasn't to intervene. Regardless of the lack of participation however, war is still war, battle is still battle and he'll have to be armoured up just like everyone else.

The Legate puts that thought to the side for a moment and he clenches his fists. "It doesn't feel right." He tells Durgash and the thicker of the two men raises his brows, turning around to inspect the rack of armour pushed to the very back of Quintillus' tent. He makes for it slowly, inhaling hard as he does so.

"Because it always feel right." He mutters and the Legate half turns to stare at the back of his head.

"It doesn't feel normal," Quintillus emphasises "Like... normal, normal."

"Six points for explanation, Sir." Durgash laughs and Quintillus presses his lips into a thin line. Noticing his unease, the Decanus waves a hand in the Imperial's direction. "It's just the pre-fight nerves."

"You always say that."

"Because it's true. Now with all due respect Sir, get your ass over here so I can armour it."

The Legate huffs, rotating the rest of the way to stand in the middle of his tent. Raising both his arms just so, the Decanus begins to armour him. Usually, he's more then capable of armouring himself when it comes the the less heavier standard stuff - but this is Legate gear in full throttle. He can do the arms himself, but anything else requires a second pair of hands.

"I can't help but think I'm missing something," Barnabas says as Durgash works on the armour under his left arm, the Orc looks upwards but doesn't give any other indication of having heard. It's only when he hands the helmet over that he responds.

"You'll figure it out," The Decanus grumbles, "Your freaky genius brain often does." Taking a step back, he half smiles. "How do you feel?"

"Like a fancy tin can." The Legate deadpans, sliding the helmet over his head with a displeased grunt. He can move his limbs, at least.

Wandering over towards a sword rack, the Legate pulls off a different sword to that of his usual one. Durgash gives of a amused grunt and leans against what currently passes for Quintillus' desk, "I haven't seen you use that in a long, long time!" He's grinning now, broadly with that typical flair of Durgash-Insanity that Quintillus can't quite match.

It earns a small bark of laughter from the Legate however, "Six years."

Most variants of weapon in the Imperial Legion follow one primary design, in fact the only thing that differs tends to be the overall length and width of the sword, which is down to the demand for arms being filled by different blacksmiths who have different techniques and different equipment. However, aside from these few differences, they are essentially the same. When Quintillus was promoted to Legate six years ago, he had gone to the Quartermaster to be outfitted. The man himself had been a lunatic, no questions about it, a real arms enthusiast who would spend his days pouring over old designs and books on his craft.

At the time, said Quartermaster had been working on a sword. Essentially Imperial in design, with the same insignia carved into the hilt, same markings, same overall shape. The only differences had been the the width and length of the blade. While the usual standard blade is a thick, solid thing mainly used for short stabs and swipes, mainly for use alongside a shield - this was much longer, thinner two and it's hilt was close to as non existent as you could get without any risk to the user's apparent safety. He remembers the Quartermaster complaining, quite loudly that the folks up above wouldn't consider his design because of the amounts of material used and that's where Quintillus had left it. At the time, he had to much on his mind to really concentrate on his rather ... eccentric, Quartermaster.

Skip forwards a month later when the entire Fourth Legion was preparing to march out to Black Marsh, and the Quartermaster gives the sword to Quintillus in some form of thanks.

He still doesn't know what he did, but he has to admit, he's somewhat glad that he had done. It's a bloody good sword, heavy - too heavy to use with a shield with the usual mode of protocol, but it's effective and in the Legate's eyes, that's all what matters.

Now, six years later the sword is still in very good nick - and that is one major feat on Quintillus' part. He picks it up to remind himself of the weight, before holding it loose at his side and bending forwards the grab the sheath-

"Do you hear that?" Durgash asks and Quintillus nods his head, slowly. Three singular blows on an Imperial war horn. It's not the sign of attack, but rather a warning. Time to get ready, the Stormcloaks are doing the same.

"Get your men,"

"Your making a speech?"

"I have to."

He doesn't bother to register the look on Durgash's face as he passes, he knows what he about to do is stupid and pretty damn rare. Speeches are _really_ not his thing, but his men will need the support.

That, and he's got a few pointers he wants to get of his chest. He often does.

* * *

The Second Cohort is essentially stood before him, with the exception of Century Six, who is further back behind the line - on the border between the Reach and Whiterun Hold. After all, Markarth is essentially under Barnabas' protection, he can't completely withdraw his forces. All the better really, he can't help but feel as if he's sending his entire Cohort to their deaths.

The Centuries are set in numbered order, three at the back, two at the front, all standing in regimented lines awaiting for what will probably be one fucked up speech from their commanding Legate.

Said Legate stands above them on the ridge of land that will serve as his overlooking point, hands clamped behind his back, he scans the large bulk of soldiers, inhales and then just comes up with as much patriotism as he can handle without throwing up his breakfast.

"My fellow Legionnaires, Officers, Battlemages - All of you, are soldiers of the Second Cohort, all of you, are soldiers of your Emperor, Titus Mede II." His voice is a clear shout, and if you can listen hard enough, the rest of the Legates are doing a similar thing. "All of you, Legionnaires of the Cyrodilic Empire are being degraded. Degraded by traitors and deserters and slanderers alike! They tell you, Legionnaires, that you are weak. They tell you, Legionnaires, that you are unfit to protect, to serve this Empire. They tell you, Legionnaires, that they are the ones fighting for a greater cause..." The expressions of his Legionnaires' faces suddenly change, a lot of them are frowning. Good.

"But let me tell you, my fellow Legionnaires, what defines weak? What defines unfit? What defines the so called 'Greater cause'...?" He spreads his arms out for emphasis.

"I will tell you, Legionnaires of the Second Cohort - that while call you weak they may, you are fighting in lands that most of you, are not your own. You are fighting away from home, away from families and from friends. You are fighting not only for your Empire, but for your right to claim such and let me tell you, Legionaries, you are winning that fight." He lets that sink in for a few seconds, "Because call you weak then may, what they are conveniently forgetting, is that without the Empire they will crumble! What they forget, is that without the Empire, they will fall! I shall ask you Legionnaires, who is the weaker? You, or those who will blindly walk away?"

There comes a series of shouts from exited soldiers and Quintillus finds himself getting fired up.

"They call you unfit. They call you inadequate. They call you unfitting for purpose, Legionnaires. They seem to think, that you do not deserve to wear those uniforms." Again, more shouting, "But look down, look down at that uniform, Legionnaires. You are wearing that uniform because you DO deserve to serve this Empire and, and when you march against those traitors, those deserters, those, _Stormcloaks_. What I want you to remember is, that while they may call you unfit to wear that uniform - they aren't wearing it now, are they?!" The shouting changes into a angry enthusiasm."You don't deserve to serve? Well, Legionnaires, judging by the fact that they follow a different banner, judging by the fact that they clad themselves in the uniform of a rebel - It seems awfully like they are the ones that do. Not. DESERVE, to fight for this Empire. It seems to me, Legionnaires that they are the ones who are unfit, that they are the ones who are inadequate!"

He's actually pacing now, but he shoves that thought to the back of his mind.

"So I ask you Legionnaires, do you agree with me?"

The response he gets is actually quite surprising, it seems that, yeah, they really do agree with him. Perhaps he's doing better then he first thought.

"They say, they are fighting for a greater cause! A greater cause! I ask you, Legionaries. What is the greater cause? To fight for an Empire that needs her soldiers more then ever? Or to walk away? To abandon her when beyond the borders there are people willing to exploit, to destroy." He points towards them with a solid motion, nigh on shouting. "What defines a greater cause? To protect the people, to protect the Empire. Or turn around and slaughter the people, the Empire you are willing to protect? Because I tell you, Legionnaires of the Second Cohort - Legionnaires of the Fourth Legion, I am telling you as a fellow soldier, I am telling you, as a man that will throw himself down alongside your comrades, I am telling you, Legionnaires that Skyrim is part of this Empire!"

The Nordic Auxiliaries seem to like that line in particular, it seems.

"So let me ask you, Legionnaires. Are you going to let Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebels march on Whiterun? On Skyrim? On this Empire?" He guesses that the series of shouting can only be a good thing. For him at least.

"Of course YOU wont. Do you want to know why Legionnaires? I don't know why I am telling you, because as your Legate I know you know. I know you know why you serve this Empire. I'm stood up here because I want to _remind_ you why."

He pauses here, lowing his shout to something a little more genuine. "Because times are tough, our Empire, Legionnaires of the Imperial Legion, is not at the peak of it's brilliance." And the reminder it seems hits them hard, they seem to quieten down, but Quintillus knows how to handle that. He fires himself up again, shouting and pacing and generally acting what some of the lunatics over in the Third Legion act like, "And by the Eight as a Soldier of this Empire I am not going to stand aside and let some traitorous Jarl and his degenerate rebels exploit our Empire in her time of need! So I ask you Legionnaires, are you with me?!"

Arms spread at his sides, Quintillus smirks as his entire cohort revs upwards to what will only be one angry and exited fighting force."Then go forth, and show these deserters just how weak they really are. Then go forth, and show them just how unfit they are to call themselves soldiers. Then go forth, and show them how wrong they are, when they call this petty rebellion the Greater Cause." He can feel the stares directed at the back of his head from both his bodyguards and the select few men who will aid him on tactical response.

"So go forth, my fellow Legionaries, and may the Gods be with you."

Yeah. He can feel his breakfast coming up. Forcing a smile, he half turns and quite literally bounds towards his tent. One of his Praetorians calls behind him, "Did you actually mean all that?"

The Legate stops dead a few paces away from the doorway to his tent, glancing over his shoulder he deflates, giving the bodyguard a certain look.

"I did, at one point."

"What point was that?"

The Legate gives off a humourless chuckle. "That's the thing," He turns to stare at the man straight, "I honestly can't remember."

He doesn't stop to register the man's look, but rather spins around to face to his tent, adjusting his helmet so it rests straight. "We've got a battle to win, Soldier. Nothing else matters at the moment."

"Of course, Legate."

Although he doesn't say so, he really can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. The feeling only amplifies when he hears the long, low blow of the war horn.

He just bloody hopes he's wrong for once.


	10. The Defence of Whiterun, Part Three

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

******WARNING:** The following chapter WILL contain a lot of bloody violence. If that's not your thing, I highly suggest skipping the parts where Barnabas actually fights. (Aka, the last few paragraphs of the last segment.) He's a violent shitbag, I know.

* * *

"Just as we turn into animals when we go up to the line... so we turn into wags and loafers when we are resting. We want to live at any price; so we cannot burden ourselves with feelings which, though they may be ornamental enough in peacetime, would be out of place here. Kemmerich is dead, Haie Westhus is dying, Martens has no legs anymore, Meyer is dead, Max is dead, Beyer is dead, Hammerling is dead... it is a damnable business, but what has it to do with us now—we live." **_― Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front._**

**_~-SNQ-~_**

******The Defence of Whiterun, Part Three.  
**Battlefield Ballad. 

* * *

It sounds lackadaisical and undoubtedly lazy, but the Legate lounges about for the better of the first hour and a half, while his second cohort moves into formation. Despite his pent up frustration regarding the whole sodding business, there is little else he can actually do. To get involved personally at this moment would be counter-productive, that, and he has direct orders form the General to keep out of it, unless of course, it proves necessary. As in, the fate hangs in the balance, necessary. So instead, he keeps an eye on his men as they form. They'll be advancing with a typical standard formation, nothing fancy and certainly nothing too complicated. Quintillus has to many lives on the line too make things all fancy and difficult. Standard lines of men, standard columns. With this, he can also keep an eye on the Stormcloak's own positions and progress, alongside a few observations on the city's major points and weaknesses. Not much else is happening aside from this; battle starts to slowly and ends so quickly.

It's all very different from his training, from those twenty minute war games he runs through when he's bored or for mental exercise. Those games are very straight forwards compared to the reality counterparts. When he was training, he trained upon flat land - of which is hardly ever the case when out on a real battlefield. When he was training, he trained to wipe out the opposing army. Generally, it's not the same 'epic face off' as Durgash had eloquently put it. There's always something in need of defending, some inconspicuous area in need of considering, inconspicuous _enemies_, in need of considering. Unlike those games he was drilled through, it's not that easy to chop and change at a heartbeat. He can't shout over a few hundred meters and just turn around.

Not that the _process_ is any different of course.

Stick some shiny bits of metal on his uniform, and Quintillus is required to sit at the sidelines, dutifully watching over as waves upon waves of his men get cut apart by their advisories. Some things, never will change and the Legate muses over this as he takes a drink out of an octagonal-based glass decanter. He brings it down and examines it with a terrific scowl upon his face, it's vintage by the looks of it. Hand carved. He deduces from the indented signature upon it's base.

He'll lose a lot of men today. Barnabas is not a pessimist, he's just seen it happen to many times, that he practically has to call himself a realist. It's a side affect of war, whether he, the General, the people or their mother's like it or not.

Personally, he hates it. Sitting back and letting his men do all the work. Of course - he doesn't like killing people, or animals, or anything but the thing is, it's become so ingrained into his mindset, so important, that the perfectionist in him cringes at the thought of it being done wrong. War is a bloody, unmerciful business - there will always, always be conflict as long as there are people on the other side of a potential battlefield, they can't not think otherwise. It's one of the reasons why he detests the term 'peacetime', for how can there be peace? When just a hundred or so miles away, there is another army, another conflict, just waiting to suck them back in?

He was, and still is, after all these years, built for fighting as economically and efficiently as possible. Battle is not glorified, not when you are the one doing it, the most he can do is make it quick and clean. With this, Quintillus has never felt right for a desk job, he's not suited mentally for it, nor is he physically. He feels immensely out of place, like there's still some part of him that's a footsoldier. He's always preferred following orders to giving them, but then again, that's a thought he shall forever have to keep bottled up.

After all, if he doesn't want the job, there are dozens of people just waiting to take it of his hands.

It's not that he doesn't want it. Barnabas does, in some regard, see his title as not only a Senior Legate, but a Junior Lieutenant as a massive honour, it just comes about in different ways. He's a soldier at the end of the day, there's no pride in war - and that's what his position essentially is. Making war. The footsoldiers carry it through, but it's higher ups like him that orchestrate it. He used to hate them for it, when he was younger, for what they put him through.

And here he is, the Legate realises with grim amusement, said high up officer, sat away from the danger. He takes a swig of his drink, beating his pipe against the corner of the desk as he does so. He's running out of tobacco.

* * *

The last time Barnabas had been in Cyrodiil, it had been twenty something years ago, for his uncle's funeral.

Thaddeus Quintillus had always been something of a absent, but none the less effective, role model. Tall, broad and bald, the man had taken his heritage as a labourer and had butchered it in every way shape in form. To his mother in particular, Thaddeus had been a irresponsible chain-smoker with a really, bad attitude - and granted, Thaddeus really was all of those things and possibly worse - but nobody couldn't say that the backwards layabout wasn't the pride of the family. Barnabas himself had been named after Thaddeus, but he had signed on with the Legion with his names swapped to avoid confusion. Thaddeus had been a Legionnaire for around two decades, impressive for a man who spoke freely in the midst of what they often considered 'peacetime'. Inventive and resourceful, he was known for conjuring up all sorts of items during his deployment. From extra blankets to officer-grade rations, swords to lantern oil. It was from Thaddeus that Barnabas had learn't the whole trick first hand.

But honestly, it was after the war that Barnabas had really come to know Thaddeus as a real man. As a soldier.

"So, you know then." He had grunted in the way of congratulation. Pausing to give a half-hearted puff on his pipe, he had examined his nephew from across the room. "Guess I'll be calling you sir, sooner or later." At any rate, in some form of messed up show of appreciation, he slanders the use of a Legion issue pipe and gifts Barnabas his own.

And they are better then the Legion ones, at any rate. A civilian might find such a statement to be cheap, taking the pipe because it's 'better' rather then it's sentimental value. His mother had done. But it's hard for him to see it any other way. Barnabas can't think about Thaddeus slamming his head into a rock one morning, he can't think about how he drowned, or how he lived his life beforehand. Only that he did. One cannot yield emotions during a time of war, or even for a long time afterwards. Rather, he has to block out the grief and despair to keep functioning.

It wasn't just his uncle.

Back in Solitude, the Fourth Legion has it's own parade ground. It's disused and is currently housing extra reserves alongside healer's tents and outfitters, but it's there. Barnabas can fit his whole second cohort in there, he could fill it almost perfectly when he has them in perfect formation.

A month and a half into the campaign in Skyrim, his second cohort resembles a small rabble in the centre. He had gone walking down the lines slowly, his eyes hesitating on the empty space, reminding himself just how how many he'll continue to lose, how many he's already lost.

In that month and a half, there had been Annius - his original Commanding Centurion, who was killed by a sword to the back. Quintus Marcius, who was shot in the neck while trying to pull his brother away, Decius Marcius died in his tent a few hours later. Aulus Caecina, a married man with three girls, had his jaw ripped open by the blunt end of a war hammer, died of infection because his men where too far behind enemy lines to get back. Pharra, nineteen years of age, died of a wound to the heart on his birthday. Lucius Porcius, they had found his body three days after a raid. Appius Claudius, who fell victim to a 7:1 ambush, alongside Caetronius and the Aquilifer Cornelius Severus. Rianee, the Third Legion General's daughter, who wound up with her horse landing on her and had to suffocate because it had decked her torso in. Quintus Fabius, the happy go lucky fellow from Helgen, who had sung his heart out every march, he was shot in the shoulder and later died of tetanus. Egnatius, who dreamed of becomming a wartime poet, died when his sword jammed in it's sheath and he had ran into an open skirmish. Ruce had spent three days in the wilderness and wound up dead. Fabius and Rusticus, the two men sent out to find him, they never came back either. Marcus Fonteius was killed by a direct shot. Florus, he was killed outright somehow. Greedy, he had a lady back home, he had clung on long enough to write her his last letter. Aulus Furius was sent to the healers with broken legs and never returned to the ranks, Quintillus went and took his helmet to his brother in law.

Those where the ones the Legate had known by name, and he knows himself that there are dozen of Quintus Marcius' or another five Ruces'. It's a tremendous loss of life.

But it's war, and with war, comes consequence.

* * *

When the situation eventually plays itself out - _Eventually_, because a he deduces that no matter how he had chose to present the strategy, the results would be the same... and that, that's the worst part... - The Legate for once was none the wiser. He is instead too preoccupied with the left wing, and it's interception of the Stormcloaks near the southern walls of Whiterun. In fact, the matter at hand is only brought to Quintillus' attention through the swearing coming from his Tribunes. He had ticked his head, ready to reprimand the man's choice of words when he'd seen it. Right in the far right of his peripheral vision. He follows his Tribune's line of sight proper to confirm it, and When he realises the sheer gravity - the sheer devastation of what had occurred, by then it's too late. All he can really do is just stand there, with his firsts clenched so hard that under the deep roar of warfare, he can hear his knuckles cracking from under the strain, and then, he just _reflects_, because he can't bring himself to mourn. Something he's becoming far to familiar with and that, he frowns hard. The thought had been far bitterer then originally intended.

Sometimes... he does hate it when he's right.

Those on-hand to provide advisory and protection stand alongside him, they, like the Legate, standing in the passing milliseconds of what is likely to be the antagonising death of his Second Century. The slow, painful deaths of around eighty three men. Despite it all, of course, that automatic part of his subconscious provides the answer. It always fetching does.

It's catapult fire.

Which means, another thing he conveniently realises late, that Quintillus is running out of time.

It does not take long for him to kick himself into a frenzied state of action, for he is a man of strategy and tactics, therefore, relies on such action in order to encourage thought process. He winds up pacing behind the over-viewing desk, attempting to rack his brain furiously for all the possible responses to... _this_. Really, he should be out there, but he's not. He should be helping them, fighting alongside them, but he's here. An officer can not often ensure the safety of his men, but he can tip the favours ever so. He can influence their chances. All he really wants to do is increase that gods damn chance, to do something. Anything. After all, if he doesn't do something soo- but... _fuck_. What the hell can he do?! And this thought slams into his ribs with accusing, sharp stab of pure, white hot guilt. The kind that leaves you feeling painfully numb afterwards. He's thousands of meters away from his men, the messengers are nowhere in sight. There's simply not enough TIME.

There's... actually nothing he can do for them.

'_Don't THINK that you stupid_-'

Those catapults are going to wipe out his entire cohort...

'_Not if you don't_-'

He's actually... going to lose his entire cohort.

'_Do SOMETHING_!'

Although he does not directly realise, some part of him does manage to register the fact that his expression has turned thunderous, and within seconds not only has he managed to cross the distance between he flagpole and the desk, but he's slammed a fist against it's varnished finish. The men around him fall into a nervous silence, the only thing breaking it is the unsteady, enraged series of breaths. Which, he realises soon afterwards is actually coming from himself. Quintillus hangs his head. _Calm down, how does getting angry solve anything?_

One of the more sympathetic of his Praetorians grumbles, "I'm sorr-"

That snaps the vital remaining control the Legate has, and with pent up aggression, he does not give the bodyguard chance.

"Don't." The Legate's face rapidly contorts into a furious snarl, "EVER." There's another small pause of silence where he grimaces his eyes closed, and then he smashes it's false sense of security by slamming another first into the desk. His hands do protest angrily at the sheer force of his actions, but he gives it no mind. Instead, he uses his knuckles to support his weight. After a few moments of consideration, he glances upwards at the Imperial Legion flag brushing against it's pole. No headwind. "Get the horses."

He's made his decision.

"Sir?"

"Get the HORSES, and get the FUCK out of my SIGHT!" He barks with an unnerving sense of unbalance and about five of them run off into he vague direction of said horses. All it takes is a subtle shake of his right hand, and his Praetorians snap to attention instantly, forming behind as the Legate both slides on his helmet and thunders away in a whirl of spotless officer's plate and Imperial Red. "Nobody, not even the THALMOR-" Again, he doesn't manage to directly notice, but his voice has gone stone cold, and it's when one of his longer serving officers flinches that he does properly understand. He realises what he's developing into. The mourning softness as gone, and the enraged blood-lust slowly beings to boil over with a twisted kind of vengeance.

In order words, calling him angry, that. That is a devastating understatement.

"Get the right reserve, tell then to fall back and provide infantry support. We're going in Legionnaires! Mark the catapults one to four from the West onwards, Phorcys - take the Fifth Century men, you have the first. I alongside my Praetorians and the units from the fourth will go for the second. Ambrosius, take whatever remains of the reserve, get them away from the supporting line. Destroy each one, leave these Degenerates with no heavy artillery." The renaming men make to go, but he raises a hand.

They falter, and Quintillus feels something dangerously violent, but not entirely unwelcome settle on his shoulders.

"I want every single one of those bastards in a shallow grave, do I make my self CLEAR?!" He yells, and when his hand smarts, he looks down to note his hand has wrapped around the hilt of his blade on instinct. "Show no Quarter!"

They leave and amongst the running figures, Quintillus gives one lasting glance at the front line.

He does wonder, if it's possible to grieve for someone... who isn't yet dead.

* * *

Typically, any Legionnaire over the rank of Centurion rides to battle, it being a insignia of status - of importance, however it's exceptionally rare for them to participate in combat on horseback. Only those Legionnaires in the Eques Legionis, and those in dire need actually resort to a Calvary offence. Of course, the Legate had long since decided that they currently belonged in the latter category. Least someone calls him out on his decision, and least said decision gets him pulled up before the folks' upstairs.

While Quintillus found himself distrusting the majority of horses as a general rule of self-preservation, he was very well versed in both riding, fighting and doing so at the same time. Thirty years of continuous training, and the occasional ambush during travelling periods had resulted in said sharpness and in all honesty, Tullius' expectations where unattainably high at the best of times. High functioning tactician or no - if Quintillus was to continue serving as a Senior Legate, he had to had the skill set of one. This skill set included horseback combat, and the use of a javelin, if he often liked it or not. It's not that he doubted the efficiency of said weapon, it's just that when in battle he preferred a more... personal, touch.

In any case, knowing he'd have a good seven foot distance between him and which ever Stormcloak is unluckiest did nothing for his mood.

Anicetus was typical of any Legion destrier, standing at around fifteen hands with a powerful hindquarters, a short back and well-muscled loin and a well-arched neck. However, while it may appear to be the perfect wartime companion, the beast had a foul temper. It was known for it's random bouts of misbehaviour and when Quintillus slides his left boot into the stirrup, it gives a displeased snort.

This of course, rapidly pisses the Legate off and a sharp tug on the mane gets his point across. Anicetus does the horse equivalent of a grump, but otherwise allows the Quintillus to push himself onto the saddle without any further incidents. Although it's true when Quintillus says that he absolutely detests the stubborn animal, he can't help but feel that they are on the same page. It's the main reason that he refrains from giving it a good smack, he could, if he was very well inclined.

'_Save it for the Stormcloaks_.'

Quintillus passes a hand over the curve of his jaw, fingertips brushing against the raised bumps of scar tissue and the pricklinesses of a two day not-shaving streak. With an abrupt jerk of his head, he ticks his helmet across to the left, so it rests more comfortably - it feels loose, now he's completely shaven. He just hopes it doesn't fly off or something. A lot of men complain that helmets mess with their sight, and granted, the Imperial design does block a great amount of peripheral vision, but in all honesty they are parts of the uniform for a reason. It's the difference between getting out unharmed and major cranial damage - and Barnabas, like most others, knows this from first hand experience.

He hadn't been wearing a helmet in the March of the Thirst and now he pays for his mistake with the crippling migraines and random seizures. He doesn't understand why it happens - only that it does, and really there is nothing more horrible then coming back around after a fit. That experience alone is enough to not make the same mistake twice. Not just him, rumour may have it that the men in Quintillus' cohort can get away with most forms of misbehaviour (Which of course, is not true. He only really has reservations for the salute and the freedom of speech - anything else is required by Imperial military rule, and Barnabas follows his orders.) but he's overbearingly strict when it comes to uniform. It's there for a reason, and he can't stress that enough - He doesn't want a cohort of brain damaged soldiers when they already, technically, have a brain damaged commanding officer.

It's one of the reasons why he is downright terrified of being transferred out from under the General's command. Tullius knows about the... damage, and tolerates it because the Legate's tactical intelligence more then makes up for it. But that's just it, tolerance. Quintillus knows the very moment he becomes too weak, too slow, too old, he'll be sent away or discharged. It happens to everyone, eventually. It's just a matter of keeping himself up in the top league, until he can find a way past, some way to move onwards.

More importantly, he needs a new Commanding Centurion. He dreads to think what Tremellius would do with _his_ cohort.

Or what's left of it, and Barnabas snaps his jaw shut abruptly, time to get a move on.

Spreading both arms out by his side, one man hands him the javelin and another straps on his shield. During these few significant moments, the Legate actually calms somewhat - he's still angry, he's still terrified. He'll always be - but the calling of battle is dragging him away from all casual thought. Right now, nothing matters aside from his calculations and his orders.

After all, Tullius may have ordered him to defend Whiterun - but he didn't exactly tell him _how_.

'_Well, we both know that's not true_...'

Flicking his gaze up, he watches the battle before him closely, slightly hunched forwards - he even takes out the small, silver battered pocket watch and uses it as a time reference. He needs to get this right, too slow and the whole attack would be pointless, to fast, and they'll just get in the way. Usually he doesn't have to resort to the watch, but there are times like this, where he becomes to distressed to note down all the small little details. Barnabas often never becomes distracted enough to lose track of time, whether he is asleep, awake or otherwise. It's just one of those things, a quirk, something – while sometimes unnerving and distinctly, well, inhuman – can be reassuring.

However, he's hardly the patron of omniscience. He _can_ lose track and when he does so, it's a bigger shock to the system then people think. He doesn't actively realise he's doing it, counting, but he knows when he isn't.

When the time comes, they steam down the passing fields, pushing their horses to a peak of speed in urgency. The men they pass join up, per to his orders and form up behind them. There's no way a collection of armoured Munifexs and Auxiliaries will be able to keep up, after all. The catapults are positioned against the surrounding woodland, a small line of operators alongside a good twenty or so Stormcloaks in defence. Once they get within a few hundred meters, the men on horseback develop into a wedge formation, the first few men creating the tip, the the rest bringing up the rear.

The first Stormcloak they clash with spins around fast enough to catch the Legate's javelin right through the upper torso, the chainmail falling apart with the sheer force of Quintillus' underarm swing. Of course, the shaft is lodged in the man's ribcage, leaving the Legate without anything. For that, he has to wait for one of his men to come up beside him with a spare, which takes longer because a lot of the men where busy advancing in combat to notice him signalling. Brining his shield up to deflect a arrow, the force of which sends vibrating pain up his upper shoulder blade and down his left arm, sending his body backwards. Quintillus snarls, checking over the very top of his shield and extending his free hand out when the hooves of a horse come thundering past. Gripping his new javelin close to the lower middle, he kicks his horse further forwards. His Praetorians kicks forwards even more so at a quicker gait, to protect him from three sides.

His second Stormcloak comes flying form behind a half wall, causing the Legate to tug harshly on the reins of his horse to avoid the man's axe swiping at his legs. A long, swooping overarm thrust brings the head of his javelin in-bedding deep into the man's left shoulder. He doesn't die, but rather screams out and staggers back a few steps. "RIGHT!" The Legate barks, and the Praetorian to his right brings a solid whack against the man's skull. He falls, presumably to die from eventual blood loss. The third javelin, thankfully, comes a lot quicker this time around and just like clockwork, a third Stormcloak comes around again, and Barnabas disables her from moving forwards by swooping and taking her from under the legs. She falls backward heavily on her tail bone and scrambles to get upwards, but after looping around clockwise, he brings his javelin down upon the stripe of skin showing between her armour and her helmet. It only takes a small jerk to end it, and he manages to get his javelin back to boot. Ticking his helmet to the side, he peeks over the farmland to get a better view of the fourth catapult. It's being manned by three men and being protected by a good five others. One of these, he realises grimly is a heavily armoured officer.

"Take the left side!" He shouts over his shoulder, bolting up over the farmland, dirt kicking up to splatter the plate covering his stomach and upper legs as he does so. Anicetus gives of a heavy, loud snort and jerks upwards into a jump to clear a low lying fence, and with that, they are a good and close towards the action.

That is, until about three Stormcloak horsemen come thundering down from the woods. The Legate just has enough time to lob his javelin at the closest one before he's sent flying off his horse sideways. He doesn't register how he does it, or where he actually lands, but what he does know is that he hits the ground hard. Sprawling over onto his back and then his side, eventually tipping and landing onto his stomach. He gasps out, his jaw aching dully from his firm clench on the way down. Grasping a handful of thick rooted grass, he pulls himself upwards onto his knees, there's a shout - his rank, he realises and he's being jerked upwards by one of his me- no not just any Legionnaire, it's his Praetorian. Good.

"I'm fine," He rasps, patting down his armour with a grimace and exhaling at the realisation that he still has his sword. Anicetus is nowhere in sight, but Legion horses are trained to run away when separated from their rider, so he's not surprised there. "To the fourth, on the double soldier!"

"Yes sir!"

Another one of his praetorians jumps off from his horse to give protection on the Legate's left hand, and they go moving up towards the catapult on foot. Their boots sink a good few inches deep in the thick, sludgy mud, which makes the uphill climb all that treacherous. Barnabas himself has to spit out the mouthful he had somehow collected during the fall in order to feel the sides of his mouth and teeth.

Around the catapult, six Stormcloaks surround the intimidate area. The ones manning the heavy artillery piece jump down to rid of the apparent attackers, which leaves both the Legate and the men upon his rear with their hands full. Drawing his sword in one quick motion, he brings his shield upwards and goes for a chunky, medium sized Nord who is armed with what looks to be some abomination crossed between an axe and a hammer. They meet on a narrow strip of grass, the Stormcloak coming forwards with a slow but no less strong lunge forwards, the Legate narrows his eyes and just powers onwards, letting the tactician take over.

_Notable tears in the general area of he lower stomach_, Quintillus lowers his sword hand however with a turn of his wrist, brings the blade upwards. _Entrance points over the second, third and fourth right ribs, chain mail is missing loops towards the central_- Ducking in a sudden jerk, the Legate dodges a overhead sweep with the thick looking offensive. _Wait for apparent pause in gait_, The Legate jerks away again, spinning on a right heel and backing away slightly. The Stormcloak has to move forwards again, disrupting his rhythm,_ Now. Apply low angular swoop, suggested thirty degree arc. _He does so as he moves forwards, the movement being so sudden that the Stormcloak stupidly allows a clean stab right through under his ribs, the Nord staggers, gasps and slumps downwards. His uniform absorbing a thick crimson spill, soaking up the sky blue and with that, the Legate jerks his sword hand backwards, freeing the blade with a slick finish.

Flicking his sword hand to get rid of any access blood from the blade, he powers on forwards. Only one of his Praetorians is beside him now, and he grim expression under his helmet gives the Legate all the evidence he needs. The next to come across him is a woman, by the looks of her gait and height. The screaming he is met with, eventually, proves his speculation. She comes at him with a fast swoop, her sword flashing silver across his vision. Another man comes thundering from the blind spot in his right, and the Praetorian jumps to his defence with a sudden shout. _No conceivable weak spots in the armour, right handed, apparent injury to left upper leg- apply attack to put emphasis on the weakness_. The Legate does so with a low lying flourish, the tip of his blade getting close, but not close enough, tucking his shield to cover his left hand side. The Stormcloak moves away, like expected. _Three paces, due right. Head tilt! head tilt, head tilt_ - He bolts forwards suddenly and slams his shield up against her lower body, bringing his sword backwards, he then jerks it upwards to send it deep into her throat, there is a surprised gurgle from the Stormcloak in response and Barnabas lets go of the blade, being unable to free it by pulling downwards. Instead, he sends a heavy booted kick to her damaged leg, sending her sprawling into the floor. Then, he is able to slide the blade back out again.

One of his Tribunes comes running past, and the Legate gets a half shout out before the Legionnaire is met with an axe to the chest. The man screams, manages a few paces backwards before loosing his balance and ultimately falling forwards, and by that point Quintillus is steaming forwards with bloody intent. Using a collection of mossy rocks as a impromptu springboard, he sends his sword arm upwards and heavily comes down on the axemen, catching him on the right collarbone. It doesn't do much aside from minor muscle damage and this he notes from the sudden burst of crimson and the working tendons in the man's shoulder. Instead, the axeman makes to send his weapon upwards towards the Legate's left. It catches against the heavy plate of his underarm, making him wince with the sudden impact, but the metal doesn't give in. Momentarily furious, he sends his shield upwards harshly, it connecting with with the Stormcloak's upper brow. Ivory bone shell splinters and cracks, the thick edged metal sinking greedily into the flesh inside. It ends quickly after that, no sooner then the man hits the floor, Barnabas is gone, running forwards.

Slipping sideways against the mud as he rapidly sprints forwards, he doesn't take in the fact that it's getting hard to breathe. Every frenzied intake burns deep in his chest, but by the time another Stormcloak comes over the ridge above him it's out of mind. The whole thing ends impassively, a solid bash in the lower ribs, a breathless grunt, a swipe to the arm, a steam of blood, a deep slice against the man's right hand side, a pained yell, another at the other side and he's on the floor bleeding out. As he flicks his sword hand upwards to rest at a more comfortable angle, the observant part of his mind notes idly that his blade is steaming. Running a vibrant red, streaming across the covered back of his hand slowly. It's warm.

That same, observant part of his mind dully notes that it feels disgusting too.

* * *

He's not angry for it anymore, and he's not sorry for it anymore - doing what he does. If killing another man in the act of war is a sin, then the Legate is soaked up to the point of saturation. He's not a good man, he doesn't pretend to be. Nor will he ever. It something he came to terms with long beforehand. He may not like it, but he won't refrain from doing so.

But, what he can do, however - is make it all that little bit easier for them. His men. Legate Barnabas Quintillus of the Second Cohort, he could do so.

Barnabas Quintillus, the Imperial Legion veteran of thirty or years. He _would_ do so.

Why? Because war is no more delicate then the finest of dances, and they know the steps. The mothers of the men he sends out, they will curse him for it. For perfecting their children in the way of war, of conflict, of battle and of what many consider to be murder. They will curse him for removing the stains of a civilian's outlook, of grandeur and expectation. They will curse him, for making them know.

But they do know, they know more then anyone. Why?

Because they are soldiers, and that goes for any man who steps foot on a battlefield.


	11. The Defence of Whiterun, Part Four

**-[SNQ]-**

* * *

**The Defence of Whiterun, Part Four.  
**The Road Home.

By the time he had happened to have grown up, the story had lost it's credibility. At the very beginning, only those closest - those he once considered peers, happened to know even the slightest bit of truth. The children happened to be the second, the ones who had heard it as a form of fictional tale - the way children like to. A story meant to be something real, yet unreal, all at once.

By the time he had happened to have grown up, those who had known said truth had grown up a bit themselves, or, they had perished the same way soldiers often do. Those who had lived to return had come convinced that, in all likelihood, the story had never in fact held any truth to begin with. Those who did, kept their mouths shut in silent protest, or perhaps remembrance, and the story was eventually lost. Faded to a distorted rumour. Those with the most imaginative of minds where left to wonder about the tale's original origins, but then, even less of these pondering souls had even bothered to attempt to find any truth in it. The family never spoke, the people never wondered. If anything, it became as absent as the protagonist himself.

By the time he had happened to have grown up, the story had been reduced to a faded folk tale. A tiny lie, a generation old. Those around seemed to reach the unspoken consensus that it had all been made up, perhaps by a gloating once-family member, or, by a cruel relation of sorts. Nobody really happened to know the truth anymore, even the woman who once bore it life, could only shake her head and wonder about the events. Only the story, the long faded memory, really stuck.

By the time he had happened to have grown up, Cyrodiil wasn't any different then how he had left it.

However with the arrival of an Imperial Legate with a twenty day leave, the people of Kvatch had begun to wonder about the truth again. The truth about an old soldiers tale.

A soldier's tale about a boy, a Legion, and a thirty year long war.

* * *

"You there. Munifex, yes you- Legionnaire, on me."

Legate Barnabas Quintillus collapses back downwards with a immediate jerk, grabbing the offending sword arm and twisting it awkwardly, earning a pained shout from it's owner. Munifex Manius Acilius, twenty three years of age, pushes up beside his commanding Legate and, after the Stormcloak is dealt with in a quick, sudden fashion, faces the man in question. Not being one for idle formality in the midst of what he considers a blood bath, he sends one large hand down against the boy's armoured shoulder. "I need you to get to the gates, to Legate Rikke. Warn her, that the Second Cohort-_FUCK_!"

Sending his sword down upon the junction between a Stormcloak's neck and shoulder, the force of his blow sends the general area spraying crimson. Manius finishes the intended task by stabbing the attacker below the ribs, sending the corpse away with a hefty shield bash.

"As I was saying." Disgruntled, the Legate adjusts his helmet. "Legate Rikke, warn her - we are retreating back to the gates."

Ducking back behind his shield, Manius is tossed sideways by the Legate and forcibly rearranged until they where back to back. The Legate no longer has his shield, and he doesn't like that very much. All things considered.

The destruction of the Stormcloak's heavily artillery had resulted in a severe backlash that Quintillus for one, did not consider. He knew there would be a response, of course there would be a bloody _response_, but not with _that_ many troops. The previous reports where grossly inaccurate, for what had been described as 'A small retaliatory force' turned out to be a fighting block in the fifties. It's left them caught close to the mountainside, fending off attackers from two sides. They could retreat back to the camp, and he gives it a long hard look, but then, as he turns towards the advancing waves of Stormcloaks - they don't have the men to properly defend it, and it looks like they'll be having a LOT of unregistered visitors if he does. No. Going back to the main gates is a better idea, makes re-grouping easier and reinforcements is something he drastically needs. Pressing back against the Munifex with this, he turns so they are in the general direction of the city itself, in which he slams back against the man's backplate with a scowl.

"You ready!?" He barks, "Not that it matters, GO!"

Because orders are orders and they have to be obeyed, Munifex Acilius goes thundering forth, leaving his Legate to deal with the aftermath of grossly inaccurate paperwork.

* * *

And there is a lot of it.

Barnabas can do the maths, he can do the calculations. He can draw you a accurate digram and explain it with such detail that even the dimmest of children could harbour some understanding. Ask, and he'll tell you. Order, and he'll respond.

But it doesn't mean he has to like it.

He comes thundering through the main doors into Dragonsreach with the Primus Pilus on his tail. The man is bickering about something or another but his voice goes unheard. The Legate has a headache the size of a pissing troll and he's going to lose it very quickly if he doesn't find someone or something to vent his frustration out on. He finds a worn looking Rikke and a frustrated looking Tullius cornered in one side of the room. There are a few other faces too, but he's not as interested in them.

Of course, he can't go towards his commanding officers with a shadow, so he stops suddenly and violently turns to face off his second in command. He doesn't like Tremellius and he's not in the mood to put up with his bullshit. "Why are you following me?" He demands and for a few genuine moments, the commanding Centurian looks a little put off.

"Sir," He emphasises with his usual show of pristine respect - mainly, none. "The men are having problems with the lack of equipment."

Pausing, the Legate narrows eyes. "And why the FUCK are you telling me about this?!" He barks, "Tell the Signifer like you are supposed to do. Do I look like Marius, Centurian Tremellius? Do you somehow find me confused with the Signifer, Tremellius?"

"Of course not, Sir." Tremellius replies, his tone is clipped and he's trying his best to keep a straight face. "It's just that, without the necessary supplies, we'll have to-"

"Well then, find yourself dismissed and get on it." Barnabas spits, and he watches as the man just turns around and makes to leave. In the corner of his eye, he sees some of the other men looking at his second in command and then at him and while it may not be obvious to a civilian - to them it's clear.

He hadn't saluted.

Usually, the Legate would not do anything in regards to such an act, but at this moment of time, he's being watched by closely ranked peers, by politicians and by the General himself. He's embarrassed, mainly but embarrassment only shows it's ugly face in one form when you are Barnabas Quintillus. "Centurion Tremellius!"

The shorter male stops dead and turns around, still there is nothing and Barnabas finds himself thundering towards him, his shoulders squared and his hands bunched.

"Forgotten how to salute?!" He demands in the way of a half shout half bark, and Tremellius suddenly looks, well, angry. Quintillus knows why, but he doesn't give a toss.

"I'm sorry, I didn't th-"

"By the fucking eight, what kind of a commanding Centurion are you, Tremelius?" The Legate snaps, "Can't you even address me correctly?!"

What Tremellius really wants to do is punch him in the face, but the smaller Imperial just claps his heels together and slams his hand into his breastplate instead. "I apologise, Legate Quintillus Sir." When he manages to get the words out, they are close to nose to nose. For a long time, they stare hard at one another.

"I expect, that you will improve on your behaviour when I next see you." Barnabas growls, "Of Evocatus status you may be, but I am your superior officer and you will treat me as such. I think I find myself incontrovertibly clear, don't you?"

"Yes Sir."

"Get out of my sight."

Once the Centurion disappears through the main doors, the Legate turns slowly and makes his way towards the General. Neither he or the First Lieutenant look particularity surprised at the man's outburst and the General just glances coolly at Quintillus.

"Legate." He greets, "State of your cohort, soldier. On the double."

Because prescribed military manner is anything but personal, his commanding Centurion has forgotten about the entire ordeal by Lunchtime, and because Barnabas knows he can depend on Tremellius for a short period of time without completely ballsing everything up, he gives him orders and a smack on the shoulder plate.

* * *

Of course, not everyone thinks that way.

"Are you happy now?" The Dragonborn asks and because Barnabas has no patience when it comes to civilian opinions, he just climbs onto his horse, ignoring her completely.

As he maps out the vague area of where he is to travel on the back of his horse's neck, hands clenching the sides of his map with more force then necessary, the dammed woman comes circling around to stand before his horse. "So, you said you didn't mind when your men never saluted." She's looking at him accusingly, he just grunts.

This is the problem with rumours and careless chatter. Most of the cohorts had heard about the incident, but it's turned into some kind of story about Quintillus using his second in command as a verbal punching bag in order to impress his similarly ranked companions.

Of course, the Legate did use the Centurion as a verbal punching bag (It's better then a physical one, at any rate.) but he doesn't believe in adding or censoring qualities for the benefit of making _friends_. He doesn't care about opinions providing that whatever person in particular knows how good he is at his job and how well they can depend on him. He's a soldier - not little miss popular.

He tells her this bluntly as he kicks his horse to a slow walk.

* * *

By the time the scenery looks disturbingly familiar, he's actually pulled his horse to a halt. He has two Praetorians behind him, and they stop too as he looks over from the upper hillside. It's a clear day and he can see it in the distance. His heart is beating faster and suddenly, his arms feel like lead.

He's been on the road for a good week or so, having bedded down at how may camps, eating how many other Legion's rations, flashing his documents at how many officers, but it's only now that he's come to the realisation. Of just what... _the bloody hell is he actually doing_.

He slowly makes up the courage to move forwards again, and soon level meadows begin to appear, a few farms with golden fields. A small village with thatched roofs sits against a moss covered river. A team of horses and traders look at them as they pass, and a boy dressed in such typical labouring clothes runs alongside them, shouting and smiling. Only one of his bodyguard's actually waves and speaks back, Barnabas just stares at this little fellow as if he can't believe his eyes or ears. Now, the children speak with clear, Cyrodilic accents and it's strange.

He's become so... used to Skryrim.

A couple of farmers shout out, a few girls wave and by the time he's within sight of the city he has to dig his boots into the side of his horse to stop himself from falling off. The landscape begins to slip away, turning more and more greener, more fertile as he passes. People move on the horizon against the crimson streaked sky, the surroundings are pristine in their wild nature - but if he looks closely enough, he can see where the catapults had made craters around thirty years earlier when the Thalmor matched past the city. He's suddenly surprised when a gang of boys comes thundering out of one of them, wooden swords clenched in their hands, screaming and shouting.

But they aren't soldiers and the realisation hits him hard.

He hasn't been home in twenty years.

And this time the Legate doesn't mean Castle Dour either.


	12. So this is an Important Notice

**-[BACKWARDEDGE]-**

* * *

**The Notifying Notice of Notable... Notations?**

Eugh. That's a mouthful.

Anyway, this is an important service announcement.

As of this moment in time, with the completion of the eleventh chapter, SnQ will be going on a short break. The reason for this treachery?

I'm starting a new, much bigger project with a collaboration with a few Fanfic enthusiasts. Yes I know, it's not the best of ideas, to go rampaging on with a completely different storyline while one of my most notable fics is already thick in development - but there is a very good reason for doing it before I continue on with Barnabas and Skyrim.

Snow no Quarter is completely planned out, from the beginning to the end. It's writing it up that makes it take so long between chapters. However while it may be padded out and ordered neatly somewhere in my PCs document's folder - it's never actually came _first_. There was a fanfiction before it, '**The Principles of Reasoning Deduction**' which tells the story of his great great... great (great) grandaddy, Avis. (Who has a role in my angry, depressive oneshot Broken Arrow.)

As this story in particular provides many building blocks in regards to Barnabas' family, past and potentially - his future. I'm going ahead with TPoRD until I get bored and return to by big ol' cuddly Imperial Legate.

I'll leave you with this note, however;

There are other people who want Barnabas dead... and they certainly aren't Stormcloak rebels.

- BackwardEdge, Over and Out.


End file.
